


The Champions

by thisisthevoiceofterror1942



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Martin Whitly and Aziraphale are the same person, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthevoiceofterror1942/pseuds/thisisthevoiceofterror1942
Summary: UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.Martin Whitly, aka the Surgeon, is visited by a mysterious stranger who calls himself Crowley and claims to know him-- but Martin has never seen this man before... or has he? With Crowley set on getting back his long-lost friend, Malcolm Bright finds himself confronted with a whole new reality.A Good Omens and Prodigal Son Crossfic AU angel!Crowley demon!Aziraphale!Martin and Aziraphale are the same person, find out how and why!Same events as the Good Omens show, but on the timeline of the book and Prodigal Son.Complete work!
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly/Adam Young, Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Character(s), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Character(s), Eve Blanchard & Malcolm Bright, Eve Blanchard/Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly, Jessica Whitly & Martin Whitly, Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Original Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Doctor Martin Whitly, aka the Surgeon, was spending a perfectly (for him) normal day— in his cell, naturally. He’d just helped his son, Malcolm, solve a copycat murder— it had been an eventful week. Suddenly, his cell door opened,

“You’ve got a visitor,” said the guard. “Insists on seeing you alone. Don’t try any funny business.”

“Funny business? I’ve been in here for twenty years and I’ve never tried any ‘funny business!’” said Martin frustratedly.

“Well, no time like the present!” said the guard.

“That’s... NOT what that phrase is used for but...” Martin trailed off. And then, the visitor walked in. The door slammed ominously behind him, and, goodness knows why, it made Martin jump slightly. He hoped it didn’t show.

“Who are you?” Martin asked. He’d never seen this man in his life. The man smirked.

“Someone who was not so different from yourself, once upon a time.” he answered, his accent British.

“Would you mind being a little less ambiguous?” asked Martin dryly. 

“Oh, but the mystery’s half the fun!” said the visitor. He simply stared at Martin, as though sizing him up. Martin figured he may as well take in everything he could about the visitor, meanwhile. The visitor was a ginger, and said hair was exceptionally nice in every way possible. Perfectly styled, and yet it didn’t look touched. Perfectly clean, but with no signs of over washing. He had a very sharp face, but an attractive one, and he wore a pair of black sunglasses that were impossible to see his eyes through. He wore an immaculate white suit and a crisp black tie, and well but not over shined dress shoes. His hands were stuck in his pockets, and his stance was that of a rock star, which went with the hair and glasses. 

“You’ve changed.” said the visitor after his long stare.

“From when? We’ve never met.” said Martin. 

“We have, you’ve just forgotten.” said the visitor.

“Look, I’m going to ask this again, who are you?” Martin asked, with just a touch of desperation.

“My name is Anthony J. Crowley.” answered the visitor.

“Your profession?” asked Martin.

“I run a plant nursery, which, surprisingly, has made me rich— my plants are the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London,” said Crowley, “but also the most terrified.” he added quietly. 

“Same with my practice.” said Martin.

“Your patients are luxurious, verdant, and beautiful?”

“What? No! No, no, goodness. No, they’re terrified.”

“Ah, yes— and not ENTIRELY without reason I suppose. But anyway, I also run a bookshop, but I rarely sell any books, as the whole thing belongs to a friend of mine, and he prefers to cling to his vintage collections.”

“You’re running his shop for him? When is he coming back?” 

“No idea.”

“How long have you been running it?”

“Decades.”

“DECADES??”

“Oh, shut up.”

“DECADES, and you think he’s coming back. Is he even alive?”

“Oh, he’s very alive. Insanely alive. Madly, wildly, passionately alive. At least in his head. Physically, well, he doesn’t get out much. He doesn’t get out at all.” 

“I really don’t understand. WHY. ARE. YOU. HERE?”

“Because I was curious.”

“Curious?”

“About you. When I remembered you, I knew I needed to find you and see if you remembered me. Funny thing, I was running that nursery and bookshop without even knowing why... But I see you don’t remember me. Maybe it’s better that way, after all this time.”

“As a doctor, I must tell you, young man, you show signs of—“

“A mental disorder? I’m not denying it but look who’s talking. And watch who you’re calling ‘young man’, because we’re the same age!”

“You look younger.”

“All right, so I’m a little younger, but it could be by seconds.”

“Seconds??”

“Well maybe minutes. Possibly hours. They hadn’t even invented days yet...”

“You’re absolutely insane! Now I, I admit, AM A PSYCHOPATH, but you are LITERALLY CRAZY. Schizophrenic, perhaps? Yes, I think so. Now please go.”

“Go?”

“Yes, leave, and on your way out, ask them to please run background checks on the person they let in here next time!” 

“Yeah all right, angel.”

“A—angel?”

“WELL, I suppose, really, I ought to call you DEMON now. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it though. Devil maybe? Nahhhh Downstairs wouldn’t like it. Gets problematic when capitalized.”

“I’m not a monster.”

“Never said you were. And just so you know, it isn’t your fault.” 

“What isn’t?”

“This.” Crowley gestured to the chains that bound Martin, and to the cell. “None of it is.”

“Of course it is! I did... what I did, and was caught.”

“No one is born broken, someone breaks us, and ohhhhh did they break you. They broke us both but I was already broken, and got saved. You were just a bastard enough to be worth knowing, and look at you now. Bastard enough to kill... Not that I haven’t killed, but you might’ve called my killing self-defense. Of course, I only killed one person and not ohhhh twenty threeeeeeee was it? But then again, I REALLY killed him. Destroyed him. Obliterated him from existence. Yours are just dead. You were at my trial...”

“I believe I asked you to leave.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you in chains. First it was the French, now it’s the Americans. I’d think you’d at least have the taste to upgrade. But then, you always did have a soft spot for both the French and the Americans. I always thought Americans were just a bunch of Nutters. Literally. That book girl and her damn bicycle...” 

“You like France but not America?”

“I think the only issue you ever had was with the Australians...”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Yeah. Right. Anyway. Leaving now. But I’ll be back! Oh yes. And you’ll remember.” 

“I highly doubt it, but um, just as a matter of interest, why the sunglasses? Is there something wrong with your eyes?” asked Martin.

“Used to be, but not anymore.” answered Crowley.

“Then why do you still wear them?” asked Martin.

“Habit.” said Crowley bluntly, and he sauntered out of the cell. 


	2. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

It was night now, and Martin was actually tired for once. He wasn’t sure why, because although Crowley had been crazy, a doctor, especially a psychopathic one, doesn’t get tired by one such interaction. Martin laid down on his pathetic little cot and quickly fell asleep. And he dreamed...

He was in the top floor of a Skyscraper, one that seemed to go forever, outward and upward. There was very little in it, and it barely seemed real, as though it was solely made of light. Clean, white light. Everything was clean and empty. A few well-dressed, slightly odd looking people passed him by. He realized he was sitting. But more than that, he was bound to the chair he was sitting in. 

“Back again... Your little trick didn’t last for long.” said one of these people. A man, and he appeared to be in charge. 

“B-but Gabriel, m-my old friend! You must understand Crowley i-is NOTHING like his fellow demons! He’s hardly a demon, really. How else could I like him? Any other one of them and I wouldn’t have been able to stand it, but he’s different. He’s KIND.” Martin heard himself say to the man. 

“It’s against the RULES.” said the man, Gabriel.

“Well, God’s plans are ineffable, perhaps this was what She wanted all along.”

“And MAYBE, since I am an ARCHANGEL, I’M right, and he’s playing you for a sucker!”

“If he were doing that, Hell wouldn’t be angry with him, they’d be welcoming him back as a hero! Praising his demonic genius!”

“Just shut your stupid mouth.”

“— and die already?”

“Yes. And you’re certainly about to.” Gabriel released Martin.

“Where are we going?”

“To Eden— or what’s left of it. That’s where this began and where it’s going to end— you’re going to watch each other die.”

“Well, it’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? First offense, after all...”

“Your LIFE is an offense! You’re a miserable excuse for an angel and always have been, right from the Start!” 

“You and I never were very fond of each other, were we?”

And then he woke up...

“Odd. Not sure what Freud would’ve made of that one.” Martin said to himself.


	3. The Snake Charmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Malcolm Whitly, aka Malcolm Bright, had just met up with NYPD Lieutenant Gil Arroyo outside the house in which was a gruesome murder scene. Gil had just given the warning of how messed up a sight the scene was, when a stranger sauntered up.

“Chief Superintendent Crowley, MET Police. England! Obviously, the accent, I’m sure you noticed. I’m here visiting an old friend and the NYPD... what’s that American term? BRASS! The Brass asked me to take a look at this crime scene.” said the stranger. Gil raised eyebrow. 

“I’ll need to see some identification.” 

“Here you go!” Crowley flashed a badge. 

“It’s real but... you seem an odd sort of policeman.” said Malcolm. 

“Yeahhhh get that a lot. But then, I’ve changed a lot, so it’s hard for everything to match.” said Crowley.

“What’s with the sunglasses?” asked JT, one of Gil’s officers.

“Habit.” said Crowley. 

“Well, come in, I guess.” said Gil. 

The group went inside, and Malcolm began to profile.

“He’s good... very good.” said Crowley. “Not that I’m surprised by that.” 

“Malcolm? Yeah, smart kid.” said Gil. 

Soon, Malcolm’s phone rang. He picked it up, but quickly went to end the call.

“Give it to me.” hissed Crowley, standing alongside Malcolm so that the phone could change hands unnoticed.

“What? Why?” asked Malcolm, highly suspicious.

“I know who’s on the phone, and clearly you don’t want to talk to him, so I will.”

“It’s just a telemarketer.”

“No, it’s your DAD!” Crowley hissed in Malcolm’s ear. Malcolm nearly dropped the phone.

“Agh you’re a stupid little git.” said Crowley. He snatched the phone, and miraculously, only Malcolm noticed.

“Somebody’s got daddy issues.” said Crowley.

“YOU!” said Martin on the other end of the phone, “WHAT are you doing ON the CRIME SCENE?” 

“Investigating, what else?”

“You didn’t tell me you were a cop.”

“Between you and me, dear, I’m not.”

“Then how were you let in?”

“I’ve got a badge.”

“A fake that they didn’t realize was fake.”

“No, it’s real.”

“Altered.”

“Not at all. Real and original.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” 

“You make me believe that I’m either stupid or going insane and that’s VERY hard to do to me.”

“You flatter me.”

“Oh do shut up.” 

“Hang on. We’ve got a development.”

“Development?”

“Namely: snakes.”

“Snakes?!”

“Ciao.” 

Crowley hung up. 

A Black Mamba was curling around the pathologist Edrisa’s leg. 

“Don’t go anywhere near it, Malcolm.” said Crowley.

“I know how to handle it, I had snakes as a kid.” said Malcolm.

“Look, kid, I’ve been around a heck of a lot longer than you have, and know more about snakes than you could POSSIBLY imagine, so just LET ME DEAL WITH IT.” said Crowley. Malcolm shrugged.

“Have fun getting bit!”

Crowley walked carefully over to Edrisa. And then, he just stood there, and said rather loudly,

“Oi! Get back here, RIGHT NOW! Leave that woman alone! What do you think you’re doing anyway? Going around climbing innocent people! The shame! That’s right, I’m ashamed of you, now COME HERE.” And suddenly, every snake in the room slithered over to him, looking— it is possible?— a bit ashamed. They climbed up him and laid passively on his shoulders. 

“How...” started Gil.

“Snakes don’t function like that, especially not vicious snakes like these!” said Malcolm.

“I’m a snake charmer. A cop needs a hobby, eh? Well, this is mine. I’ve always had a way with snakes, mind. But yeah... snakes like me. Kind of like I’m their great big papa snake. Devil knows why.” said Crowley. If it weren’t for the glasses, everyone would’ve been able to see the laughter in his eyes. He was the first snake, and although since being returned to his angelic state he’d lost the ability to become a snake, he still maintained his connection to them, and they theirs to him.

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, outside of a messed up murder scene.” said JT.

“Those snakes wouldn’t happen to be YOURS would they?” asked Dani, another officer.

“Nice try, sweetie, but I’m not the murderer.” Crowley said to her. “Any and all snakes listen to me, I swear to God.” 

Dani raised an eyebrow.

“Cross my heart and hope to die!” said Crowley with a wink. “And trust me, I’m pretty hard to kill.”

“People have tried?” asked Malcolm.

“Psshhaw, oh, LOTS!” said Crowley, grinning.

“It does go with being a cop,” said Gil.

“This went with EVERYTHING.” said Crowley. He paused. “Is anyone going to do anything with these snakes orrrrr...?”

“If you know the appropriate channels with which to deal with them, go ahead.” said Gil. 

“I do.” said Crowley, and sauntered to the door. “Oh! Here’s your phone, kid!” He flung Malcolm’s phone at him. Luckily, Malcolm caught it. 

“See you guys later!” said Crowley. And he disappeared. 

“He was... weird.” said Gil.

“Flash bastard.” said Malcolm.


	4. The Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

“You should’ve called me when you realized there were snakes.”

Crowley had just walked in on Ainsley and Malcolm in Malcolm’s hospital room— Malcolm had been bit by a snake in a den of exotic black market animals while chasing a suspect.

“Er, how would I have?” asked Malcolm awkwardly, who was officially put off by this guy.

“My phone number. I put it on your phone. Didn’t you notice, genius?” asked Crowley.

“Malcolm, who’s this?” asked Ainsley.

“Anthony J. Crowley, at your service.” said Crowley, making a little bow. 

“What are you doing here? How did you find me? How did you know that was my father on the phone?” asked Malcolm.

“Oh, I’ve got my ways. Let’s just say I’m this family’s guardian angel.” replied Crowley.

“Well, you came far too late.” said Malcolm bitterly. Crowley’s swaggering facade cracked.

“I’m sorry. I swear, I’m so sorry. Honestly, I am. But the truth is, I suffered amnesia many years ago, and have only just remembered anything about this family. I never meant to leave him alone, poor defenseless thing....” 

“Who was?” asked Ainsley.

“What?” said Crowley, snapping out of his internal monologue.

“Who was a poor defenseless thing?” asked Ainsley. 

“Oh. Your dad.” answered Crowley awkwardly.

“Our DAD?” Both Ainsley and Malcolm gaped.

“Yeah. I guess it’s hard for you to see him in that light. But he hasn’t always been the way he is now...”

“Soooo you knew him... when you were kids?” ventured Ainsley. 

Crowley decided that the answer to this was going to be “yes” because really, they WERE kids in The Beginning. They’d only been alive a very short time before humans became things.

“Yeah.”

“Funny, he’s never spoken of you.” said Malcolm, suspicious.

“He wouldn’t of— he suffered amnesia too. It was the result of an accident we were in. We forgot everything we knew. He STILL doesn’t remember.” said Crowley.

“But surely your parents—“ began Ainsley.

“Parents? We didn’t have parents. Ever wonder why you didn’t get to meet Grandma and Grandpa? Because you couldn’t. They were dead, but for way longer than you thought they’d been.” said Crowley.

“Orphans. That’s so sad.” said Ainsley. “I suppose you were adopted by a British family, going by the accent.” 

“That’s right.” answered Crowley.

“What was he like as a kid? Dad.” asked Malcolm. Crowley smiled.

“A perfect angel. I was the bad one. Always up to mischief and there he’d be, telling me off, saying how awful it was going be when we got in trouble... Now look who’s in trouble...”

“What kind of accident were you in?” asked Ainsley.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” said Crowley. 

“But is the accident why dad is... the way he is?” asked Ainsley.

“It’s not so clear cut as that, but if I really have to stamp it with a ‘YES’ or a ‘NO’, it’s definitely ‘YES’.” said Crowley.

“But you were injured too. Doesn’t that mean that you’re, at least potentially, the same as him?” said Malcolm.

“Ah, there’s the thing. See, he was good, now he’s bad. I was bad, now I’m good.” said Crowley.

“That’s not how brains work.” said Malcolm firmly.

“I never said anything damaged our brains.” said Crowley.

“But the amnesia...” said Ainsley.

“Amnesia comes from trauma— it doesn’t have to be physical trauma, it can be mental trauma.” said Crowley.

“But ‘accident’ suggests—“ began Ainsley.

“ACCIDENT is just an nice word for what happened to us!” snapped Crowley. “I come here to try to help this family and your ADDLED little brains HAVE to keep picking! PICKING at alllllll the INCONSISTENCIES. Trying to see if I’m CRAZY, or DANGEROUS. I’m not! And I’ve got a right to privacy too, whatever you may think, whatever your father has done, and whatever you’ve seen, some people keep secrets and they’re perfectly safe and good. But sometimes the past hurts. It’s not as if you cry to the world that your daddy’s a killer! I’ve got duty to this family, to your dad, and to keep silent about some things because you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Why wouldn’t we?” asked Ainsley.

“Because there’s no way in Hell you believe in God.” said Crowley darkly.

“No...” said Malcolm. 

“Well there you have it. The day I see you with a dog collar sitting inside a confessional, we’ll have a talk. For now, I’m going to go. I’ll see you later, try not to get killed, okay? And do me a favor— go easy on your old man. He’s older than you could possibly imagine.” said Crowley, and sauntered off.

Crowley walked through the doors of Headquarters, but instead of going on the Down escalator, as he had for six thousand years, he went on the Up escalator. A man waited for him at the Top.

“Crowley...” said the man, trying to sound amiable.

“Gabriel...” said Crowley, grinding his teeth into a grin. 

“This is, uh, very interesting, to have you back again.” stumbled Gabriel.

“Yeah.” said Crowley.

“An angel again... thats— that’s—“ 

“Yeah, I know. Look, I know you and I literally hate each other’s guts but, I needed to talk to someone.”

“I’m always listening.”

“Mm. Well, it’s Aziraphale. Been keeping any tabs on him or did you leave that to Hell?”

“Well... Earth surveillance never STOPS but...”

“You don’t check it. Right. Of course not. Well you SHOULD, because you’re going to bawl your purple eyes out, Gabriel, when you see what you’ve done to him.”


	5. Escape Clause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE CRUCIAL CHAPTER I SOMEHOW ORIGINALLY LEFT OUT! PLEASE READ.

“I saw a rather attractive woman leave your cell— I take it that’s the lady wife.” said Crowley, striding into Martin’s cell.

“Erm, yes.” said Martin. “Back again, I see.”

“I said I was going to be.... I met the kids.”

“MY kids?”

“Yeah. Malcolm’s a bloody bright git, I must say. And Ainsley... well, to put it bluntly, she’s a looker.”

“Thank you.”

“Although, what the heck kind of a name is Ainsley Whitley? Bit alliterative, don’t you think?”

“Ainsley is a family name on Jessica’s side.”

“Still, I’d think you two would know better! But never mind, she can always change it. I changed mine...” 

There was a pause.

“Have you come to be desperately insane again?” asked Martin.

“Not exactly... Ever watch the Twilight Zone?” 

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, anyway, there’s this one episode where a hypochondriac makes a deal with the devil— he sells his soul for immortality. But pretty soon the guy gets bored— nothing can hurt him, so life’s lost all it’s excitement. He’s tried EVERYTHING: poisoning himself, throwing himself in front of cars and buses and trains, burning himself on the radiator. Now, obviously his wife doesn’t understand that’s he immortal, so when he goes to throw himself off a RIDICULOUSLY high building, she tries to stop him and ends up falling off it herself. Now, he’s a hard man and doesn’t really care— and he gets an idea. He decides to tell the police he’s murdered her, pushed her off himself, so that he can try out his immortality in the electric chair. Unfortunately, he gets life imprisonment. The devil appears to him and reminds him he’s got an escape clause— death—, and he can utilize it. The man says he’d like to use the escape clause, and the devil says, ‘Odd thing: you look like a man having a heart attack. JUST like a man having a heart attack.’ And of course, that’s exactly what happens that very moment, and the man dies, escaping eternal incarceration.”

“That’s... interesting. Is there a reason you’re telling me this story?” asked Martin.

“Yeah, there is: its because, odd thing, you look like a man having a heart attack. JUST like a man having a heart attack.” said Crowley. And suddenly, Martin collapsed.

Martin gasped. His eyes flew open. He sat bolt upright. 

“Woah! Steady, mate!” It was Crowley, who holding him by the shoulders. Martin realized he was clenching his fist—he opened it, something clattered onto the floor.

“Where... where I am?” he asked breathily. He stared into Crowley’s brown eyes. This was the first time he was seeing Crowley without his sunglasses on...

“A morgue.” replied Crowley, who was dressed in black scrubs.

“... Why...?”

“Because you’re dead, and you’ve been left in here awaiting the pathologist, who just so happens to be me.”

“You never said you were a...”

“I’m not a doctor, I’m not a cop, but I can become anything and anyone I want.”

“Sounds dangerous.” 

“Eh. But GEEZ you’re taking a long time to make a comeback! Still fuzzy...” He snapped his fingers. Martin blinked.

“There,” said Crowley. He crossed to the other side of the room. “Feel better?”

“Yeah.” said Martin. He looked down and saw what little he was covered. “I’m naked!” 

FWUMP! A crumpled mass of clothes hit him in the face, having been flung across the room with a surprising amount of force. He threw a frustrated glance at Crowley, who looked very amused.

“Allons-y! Clothes! Now! I won’t peek, cross my heart!” Crowley said.

“I don’t understand.” said Martin.

“You should have that on a t-shirt.”

“No but OBVIOUSLY, I’m not dead, so how do they think I am? Hang on... you... YOU did something!! You told me that story and then you said...”

“Yeah, yeah, explanations AFTER the escape, okay? Now GET DRESSED!” bellowed Crowley. Martin threw on the clothes he’d been given.

“Now what?” 

“We’re going to jump out of a window.”

“WHAT?!” 

“We’re on the second floor. Below one of the windows in this room are trash bins. We’re going to jump into them.”

“WHAT?!?!” 

Crowley flung open said window and looked down. 

“Well, here goes!” He jumped. “Geronimo!!!” 

Martin rushed to the window and looked down. Crowley was climbing out of the bin, quite fine.

“Jump, you idiot!” he bellowed up.

“Oh dear.” said Martin. He took a breath and flung himself out. A moment later he was looking Crowley right in the face.

“Come on!” said Crowley impatiently. Martin realized that there was a very old but PERFECT white Bentley before him, the engine rolling. 

“That car yours?” he asked.

“Of course it’s bloody mine!” said Crowley, rather offended. “Who else’s? The taxi company?? Get in.”

Martin got in the passenger seat, and Crowley got in the driver’s. They sped off, into the heart off New York City.

“Crowley! You can’t do ninety miles an hour in central New York!” cried Martin.

“Why not?” asked Crowley.

“You’ll get us killed!” 

“Don’t be daft.” 

“Speaking of being killed, WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED?”

“I gave you a heart attack, made you appear dead, tricked them into thinking a special pathologist was coming, and then rescued you.” 

“I still don’t understand.” 

“And THERE’S the BACK of the t-shirt!”

“No but HOW? Did you use some sort of hypnosis to make me collapse and then drug me with something that made my heartbeat nearly imperceptible, and fiddle with their tech?” 

“Something like that.”

“‘Something like that.’ Can’t you EVER give a straight answer?”

“No, because the truth in unbelievable.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Not scientific, at least.”

“Holistic?”

“S—“ started Crowley.

“DON’T say ‘something like that’!” bellowed Martin. Crowley grunted. But it wasn’t an amused grunt. Or unamused. It wasn’t of emotion.

“What’s wrong?” asked Martin. 

“Nothing.” said Crowley shortly.

“It couldn’t be more obvious that you’re lying. Come on, what’s wrong?” 

“I said, NOTHING.” growled Crowley through gritted teeth. 

Martin didn’t believe Crowley, but he didn’t say anything more. However, a moment later, Crowley’s head fell forward, and the car drifted.

“WOAH!” cried Martin, grabbing the wheel and jerking the car back on course just in time. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he shook Crowley gently.

“Crowley. Crowley? AN-THON-Y!” 

Crowley looked up weakly for a moment.

“I need you to stay awake for me, okay? I’m going to pull over to the right, can you hit the brake?” asked Martin. The car slowed, and Martin put it into park. He jumped out of the car and went around to Crowley. 

“Crowley?”

Crowley grunted. 

“Come on, let’s get you in the back seat.” said Martin. He helped Crowley out of the driver seat and onto the back ones. 

“What’s the matter with you... Crowley... Crowley, you’re bleeding! You’re bleeding all over place! Jesus— WHAT. How???” 

“You were... dreaming... terrors... scared. You grabbed... you...” Crowley gestured a slashing motion. And suddenly Martin realized what had fallen out of his hand when he had woken up. He’d grabbed one of the surgical instruments on the tray next to his slab, and in a strange half-dead fugue state he’d tried to use it against his night terrors— instead, he’d slashed Crowley in the side. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Martin.

“Had to escape... no time... fix it later... easy.” Crowley made a snapping motion. 

“Easy? No. It’s not deep but it’s awfully clean, which means it’s harder to stop the bleeding— Crowley? Crowley, can you hear me?” Martin felt himself panicking. WHY was he panicking? He’d killed SO many people, why was he afraid of losing this man he hardly knew? But something deep inside him was stirring, and he was very VERY scared. Crowley coughed roughly, his head lolled to one side. “Anthony Crowley! DONT. YOU. DARE.” Martin growled. Crowley looked at him, a funny expression on his face. He raised his hand and touched Martin’s face. He smiled.

“Aziraphale...” he said, far weaker than before.

“A... Aziraphale??” said Martin. 

Crowley’s eyes closed.

“No! Nnnonononoo. Don’t.” said Martin. “What are you doing, you silly bastard? Come on. You know I can’t live without you, not after six thousand years...” Six thousand years? What was he saying? Aziraphale... And then suddenly, he knew. He knew EVERYTHING. He could see it all: The Beginning, Armageddon, everything in between... He saw Crowley, he saw himself. The REAL him. Aziraphale, an angel, principality of Heaven. And then, he saw after. After they’d done their body swap, after after... Heaven and Hell had figured out their trick...

“You and I never were very fond of each other, were we?” said Aziraphale. 

“No.” said Gabriel bluntly. He grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and dragged him over to the small, revolving Earth that was suspended in Heaven. Gabriel pointed to a spot on the Globe. 

“Eden,” he said with a smirk. And the Globe sucked him and Aziraphale into it. They landed in a desolate land, where Eden had been six thousand years ago. Beelzebub was there with Crowley. Crowley smiled at Aziraphale.

“It was worth it, Aziraphale,” he said. “You were worth it.”

“So were you.” Aziraphale replied, unable to blink back the tears. 

“On your kneeszzzzz!” ordered Beelbub. Crowley kneeled. 

“On your knees,” said Gabriel, smiling sadisticly.

Aziraphale kneeled. 

Beelzebub bound Crowley, Gabriel bound Aziraphale. The archangel and archdemon swapped places. 

Suddenly, Gabriel was holding a jug of Holy Water.

Suddenly, Beelzebub was holding a torch of Hellfire. 

Suddenly, every angel and every demon alive was standing around them, cheering on the execution. 

“Here ends the side of Aziraphale and Crowley.” said Aziraphale with a sad smile.

“No, angel, Our Side lives on. They may hate us, and they can kill, but they can’t forget us.” said Crowley. Aziraphale nodded. 

Simultaneously, Gabriel and Beelzebub doused their victims with the deadly substances. Inhuman screaming filled the air...

Black bubbled around Crowley.

Gold bubbled around Aziraphale.

White and Black feathers were falling around them...

The pitcher of Holy Water was empty.

The torch of Hellfire was out.

There wasn’t supposed to be anything left of Aziraphale and Crowley. But there was. Two seemingly shrunken, crumpled things lay in their places, like shriveled dead fledglings. 

Crowley’s was white.

Aziraphale’s was black.

They were wings... 

THOSE things WERE Aziraphale and Crowley, the little that was left of them. And they were alive. 

Crowley flapped his white wings feebly. He was barely stirring. Black blood was still all over him, but his wounds were glowing gold.

Aziraphale hadn’t moved at all. His wounds were deeper and more numerous than Crowley’s. Golden blood was dried, and his wounds looked black. His wings looked something like a beaten up umbrella. A black umbrella. Even his hair was black now.

“WHAT. DID. WE. DO.” gasped Gabriel.

“This iszzzz IMPOSSZZZZZIBLE!” cried Beelzebub.

“They’ve switched!” cried Gabriel.

“Each went native to the other zzzside, but not enough to zzzsswitch them over.” said Beelzebub.

“Neither was completely angel or demon. The Holy Water burnt away Crowley’s demon side, and the Hellfire burnt away Aziraphale’s angel side. That’s why they’re all mangled, and that’s why Aziraphale is worse. He was more angel than Crowley was demon.” said Gabriel.

“Doeszzzz that mean that we could kill them with opposzzite weaponszzz now?” asked Beelzebub.

“I don’t know...” replied Gabriel.

“Well, we could try it.”

“We could.”

“But?” 

“SHOULD we?”

“I have never done what I ZZZSHOULD.”

“No but... perhaps they were right. Perhaps we are being tested somehow.” 

“Doeszzzz that matter? A deciszzzzion zzstill haszzz to be made!”

“Of course. But here’s the thing— maybe this is SUPPOSED to happen,” said Gabriel. Suddenly the light of epiphany dawned in his eyes. “It might be part of the Great Plan!”

“I don’t underszzzztand.” said Beelzebub.

“There has to be an Armageddon.”

“Obviouszzzzly.”

“But they stopped it.”

“Yeszz.”

“But what if they lived and got switched FOR REASON.”

“You keep ZZZSAYING that! Would you BE CLEAR?”

“THEY. HAVE. BEEN. SWITCHED.”

“YESZZZZ I KNOW.”

“THEY. WILL. HAVE. NO. CLUE. WHAT. TO. DO. THEY WILL START ARMAGEDDON, THEY ARE THE NEW ANTICHRIST, THIS IS THE THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF THE GREAT PLAN.” 

“Becauszzzzze... they’ll be confuszzed?”

“Aziraphale was dumb as an angel, his decisions can only get worse.”

“And it iszzz true that Crowley waszz alwayszzz a rubbiszzh demon... Zzso we let them live.”

“So that they can mess up.”

“Zzzso that we can end the world.”

“Correct.”

“Right. ZzSo if they’re antichrisszztszzz then we zzzshould put them on Earth aszzz humanszzz.”

“Agreed. We should make them JUST like an antichrist.”

“You mean... eraszzze their memorieszzz?”

“We can’t have them asking WHY we spared them, can we?”

“Crowley? Crowley, I remember now. I remember going to Eden, I remember the feeling of dying... but we didn’t. How? Hellfire and Holy Water, it’s impossible!... How could I kill... WHY... wait. Why is the Bentley white. White car, white suit, and you stopped calling me ‘angel’... Oh no. We didn’t. You’re not— I’m not— ohhhhh...” Martin, or rather Aziraphale, was remembering Crowley’s words from that first day Crowley came to his cell. He was finally understanding what he’d become. He shook his head, ignoring it. He had more urgent matters.

“Crowley, you idiot, why didn’t you heal yourself? Surely we weren’t THAT crunched for escape time? Or were we... Well, it’s up to me now, I suppose.” 

Aziraphale waved his hand, and the blood disappeared, and the wound lessened. Crowley drew a sharp breath. His eyes opened. 

“Azira.....”

“Sssshhh, go to sleep. Don’t try to talk now. I UNDERSTAND. We’re swapped, and I’m rather an awful person now, but with you around and my memories back, I’ll get better; now don’t you worry about anything, okay, angel?” said Aziraphale. A small smile played on Crowley’s lips, and he closed his eyes again.

Aziraphale situated Crowley on the back seat, and then got into the driver’s. 

“Well, Bentley, old girl, you’ve got a demon at the wheel again!” 

Aziraphale glanced in the review mirror.

“Oh, that will never do!” he said. He snapped his fingers and the grey in his hair disappeared, leaving it black as it had been twenty years ago. 

“That’s more like it. Let’s go!” He hit the accelerator, and sped off into the night. 

“Well, here I am! What is it?”

Malcolm had just arrived at his mother’s house after her urgent call to him. Naturally he assumed she was over-reacting about something. Ainsley was there too, and clearly thinking the same.

“My darlings, I have something important to tell you.” said Jessica. “Your father... is dead.”

“He’s what??” gasped Ainsley, her face betraying something of a disappointment. 

“He’s dead.” repeated Jessica.

“Ah,” said Malcolm. He wasn’t sure what he felt. His father had always been a shadow over him, but now his father was dead, and that shadow was fading. It was freedom. And yet, he felt an emptiness— but perhaps it was the same emptiness that had always been there, since the day he knew his father was a killer. 

“Well. Now you know.” said Jessica.

“Yes. That’s that.” said Malcolm with a smile.

“Not quite,” said Jessica uncomfortably.

“What do you mean?” asked Ainsley.

“His body has gone missing.” said Jessica reluctantly.

“It’s what??” cried Malcolm. “His BODY has gone MISSING?”

“Yes.” said Jessica. “They called for a special pathologist, and his body was left unattended in the morgue while they waited. It disappeared, and there was some confusion as to whether or not the pathologist was ever there. Some people said there was a pathologist, others said there wasn’t, and that there was only the man who was with him when he died.”

“Someone was with him?” said Malcolm suspiciously.

“Yes... and he’s vanished too.” replied Jessica. 

“This is just a hunch but... the man who was with him... his name wasn’t Crowley, by any chance, was it?” asked Ainsley.

“That’s sounds right, I believe it was.” said Jessica. “... There’s something you’re not telling me. Both of you. What is it?”

“There’s this guy Crowley who’s been hanging around. Showed up at crime scenes with a badge, visited Malcolm in hospital... He says he used to know Dad.” explained Ainsley.

“And YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?” asked Jessica, furiously.

“I didn’t want to worry you. He seems pretty harmless, and I’m a profiler, remember.” said Malcolm.

“A weak excuse, as usual.” said Jessica. “This Crowley, what does he look like?” 

“Um, considerably tall,” said Malcolm, “I’d say 6’ 1”. Sharp features—“

“But attractive—“ added Ainsley.

“Ginger, well-dressed,” continued Malcolm.

“And always wears sunglasses.” finished Ainsley.

“It would seem you’ve seen a lot of him. But I think I saw him as I— never mind.” said Jessica.

“As you what?” asked Ainsley.

“I SAID never mind!” said Jessica.

“You went to see Dad, didn’t you?” said Malcolm. “Didn’t you?”

“Well... yes. I told him to stop letting you visit. It’s not HEALTHY for you to be seeing him, Malcolm! Or it wouldn’t have been... I saw this Crowley character coming as I was leaving. I didn’t know he was going to see your father or I would’ve done something about it.” said Jessica. 

“I’m not convinced Dad is dead.” said Malcolm.

“It was certified by a doctor. An OFFICIAL doctor, nothing to do with this Crowley person or a special pathologist.” said Jessica. 

“But don’t you think it’s odd? A man from the Surgeon’s past comes to see him, and then he dies.” said Malcolm.

“There was no suggestion of foul play. They were being watched through the door— Crowley never touched him, it was a heart attack.” said Jessica.

“But Dad didn’t have heart trouble.” said Malcolm.

“All those years locked up, it’s bound to do something to you.” said Ainsley.

“But he was a doctor! He would’ve known if he was sick.” said Malcolm.

“Maybe he lost the will to live in there.” suggested Ainsley.

“Your father? Never.” said Jessica.

“It just doesn’t add up. Even if he is dead, who would want to take his body?” said Malcolm.

“Any sick-minded psycho who followed his killings.” said Jessica disgustedly.

“But any sick-minded psycho can’t just WALK INto mental hospital and SNATCH A BODY.” said Malcolm.

“I don’t know, Malcolm, I don’t know!” said Jessica, shaking her head.

“You think Crowley took his body, don’t you?” asked Ainsley.

“Crowley certainly did something. He was the last person to see the Surgeon alive, and possibly the last person to see him dead.” said Malcolm. “I’m going to tell both Gil AND the hospital warden all I know about Crowley. If there’s ANY chance the Surgeon is still alive, we need to know, because IF HE’S ALIVE—“

“Then he’s escaped.” said Jessica


	6. Righting Wrongs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE. PLEASE GO BACK BEFORE READING THIS CHAPTER.

To-day I shall be strong,

No more shall yield to wrong,

Shall squander life no more;

Crowley woke up on the backseat of the Bentley. Crowley squinted at the early morning sunlight just beginning to creep over a hill in the East. 

“Crowley,”

Aziraphale was looking at him in the rear view mirror. “How are you?”

“Could be better.” Crowley replied.

“Mm. Where the Hell is the Queen?” asked Aziraphale, rummaging through Crowley’s cds.

“Ah...” said Crowley. “That changed.”

“How about the Velvet Underground? That’s not particularly evil.”

“Nope.”

“Geez! Well, what does this car have?”

“Buddy Holly.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s not so bad. It’s not what I was looking for but...” 

Aziraphale grabbed a cd and put it in the player.

Everyday, it's a gettin' closer,

Goin' faster than a roller coaster,

Love like yours will surely come my way, (hey, hey, hey)

Everyday, it's a gettin' faster,

Everyone says go ahead and ask her,

Love like yours will surely come my way, (hey, hey, hey)

Everyday seems a little longer,

Every way, love's a little stronger,

Come what may, do you ever long for

True love from me?

Everyday, it's a gettin' closer,

Goin' faster than a roller coaster,

Love like yours will surely come my way, (hey, hey, hey)

Everyday seems a little longer,

Every way, love's a little stronger,

Come what may, do you ever long for

True love from me?

Everyday, it's a gettin' closer,

Goin' faster than a roller coaster,

Love like yours will surely come my way, (hey, hey, hey)

Love like yours will surely come my way

“What? Is this about Armageddon?” asked Aziraphale amusedly.

“Perhaps,” said Crowley with a small smile. “About last night. Thanks.”

“Don’t be silly. Why would I EVER let you die? Ugh, that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“What do I DO, Crowley? I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

“You’re my friend.”

“Even after all I’ve done?”

“I know you’re not a bad person, Aziraphale.”

“You shouldn’t’ve thanked me. You gave it away. You were afraid I’d let you die, for my own amusement. You do think I’m a bad person.”

“You’ve remembered that you’re an angel now. You won’t do it again.”

“Won’t I?”

“Will you?”

There was silence. 

“I’m not an angel.” said Aziraphale. “I’m a demon.”

“You’ll always be an angel to me.” said Crowley.

“Oh, please. Stop the act. I can see THROUGH it, Crowley, I’ve known you long enough!”

“Aziraphale, I was a demon once, it’s not as if I don’t understand.”

“You never killed a human being, Crowley, so how could you?”

“Does it matter if I do? It’s your decisions from here on out that matter. It’s your choice: are you the Principality Aziraphale or Martin Whitly, the Surgeon?” 

“I can’t just CHOOSE like that! You know that! I’m not a principality anymore, but nor am I really Martin Whitly. Martin Whitly died when you killed him in that cell, but the Principality Aziraphale died that day in Eden.”

“If Aziraphale is dead then Crowley must be too, so who am I?”

“I don’t know.”

More silence. 

“Let me drive.” said Crowley. 

“You’re in no fit state.” replied Aziraphale.

“I’m fine.” 

“Please, don’t fight with me.”

“Turn them off.”

“Sorry?”

“Your emotions. Martin Whitly, a psychopath. You can turn them off. Right now you are worrying about me. Stop it. Right now.”

“As you wish.”

Aziraphale pulled the car over and got out. “Well?”

Crowley got out of the car and started toward the driver’s seat. He stumbled, his face looking more haggard just for standing up. All the emotions Aziraphale had felt the night before came flooding back to him, he panicked. He grabbed Crowley.

“NO.” He forced Crowley into the backseat.

“You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t turn them off. You’re not Martin Whitly at all.” said Crowley.

Aziraphale sat down beside Crowley.

“Why did I do it. Why. Why did I kill innocent people? You were a demon for 6,000 years and you never stooped so low.”

“Well, I tried to kill when I wanted to. Sure, it was only animals but it was still that demonic aggression. The need for some sadism. But the difference is that I had someone to stop me. Someone who saw through me but didn’t judge me. Someone who could tell me ‘no’, and I’d listen. I had you. I knew who and what I was. You didn’t have an angel beside you, you didn’t know what you were, you didn’t have someone who wouldn’t judge you, who would say ‘no’ and still love you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to kill people, Crowley. Animals are bad enough.”

“You never had much sympathy for the fish in your sushi— only the ducks I tried to drown!” 

“You do have a point. Still, those were fish. Quite different from humans. And none of it mitigates the fact that I enjoyed killing people. That if I did it now... I still would.”

“It’s not the feelings that are wrong, Aziraphale, because you can’t help feelings. It’s the actions. We both know that. I’m not saying you can stop the urges, but you can stop the actions.”

“I... lash out, sometimes.”

“Identify why.”

“... My family. When people say I don’t love them. When people say they don’t love me.”

“Oh, angel... you were lonely. You don’t have to be lonely anymore. We’re back on our side. If you start to do something wrong, I’ll be here to stop you.“

“But what do I do about my family? How do I right the wrongs?”

“Adam. We’ll find him. He’ll change it. He was sorry for starting Armageddon, he’ll know you’re sorry about this.” 

“... am I?”

“Well, you’ll never get anywhere with that attitude. Aren’t you?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Think about everything you’ve done. Picture it. Imagine it. Feel it. You enjoyed it at first but now you can’t block the negative emotions. How does it feel? Think of Jessica. Of Ainsley. Of Malcolm.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. His brow furrowed as he navigated his extensive memories. 

And he cried.

He buried himself in Crowley’s embrace and he wept.

They were in a quaint room in a quaint cottage in a quaint village. Aziraphale was sitting comfortably in just the sort of squishy armchair he loved, and Crowley was stretched upon sofa, awkwardly trying not to act too much like the invalid he currently was.

“Look, I’m really sorry but... I’ve lost the ability.” said Adam Young, handing Aziraphale a cup of tea.

“You what?” asked Aziraphale in disbelief.

“I don’t have miraculous powers anymore.” said Adam, now passing a cup to Crowley. 

“How’s that?” asked Crowley suspiciously, delicately trying to balance his teacup and saucer on the pillow he’d situated across his lap. Adam shrugged. 

“I don’t know. That summer we stopped Armageddon, they slowly faded away. Maybe because I changed reality so that Satan isn’t my father, I slowly lost those powers which I owe to him.”

“I suppose that’s a decent enough explanation.” said Aziraphale, sipping his tea. 

“I really am sorry.” said Adam. “I would’ve liked to have fixed this whole serial killer debacle for you. I know what it feels like to mess up like that.” 

“Mm.” mused Aziraphale. 

“But I’d be happy to help you with anything else you might come up with to ease the pain a little.” said Adam. ”Speaking of which, you all right there, Anthony?” 

Crowley nodded.

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t solve everything with miracles.” Aziraphale said, addressing Adam. “I already did what I could.” He nodded toward Crowley.

“Stupid human bodies.” muttered Crowley with a smirk. 

“Would you have been more comfortable as an injured snake?” asked Adam.

“I’d be colder if I was one but I certainly wouldn’t have minded being able to curl up.” Crowley answered, taking a long slurp of tea. 

“I shudder to think what sort of things I could’ve turned into back then, if I’d only thought to do it.” said Adam amusedly.

“Shudder to think indeed.” said Aziraphale. 

Adam chuckled.

“What?” asked Aziraphale, wondering if it had been him somehow.

“Oh, nothing, just— ah—! neither of you have aged a day! In fact, you may look younger, Aziraphale!” said Adam.

“It’s the hair.”

“Is it now?”

“Most definitely.”

“Hmm. How interesting. I think I shall have white hair, in the end.” said Adam, ruffling his curls.

“I must say, your hair is very golden for a man in his forties.” remarked Aziraphale. 

“Yes...” said Adam with a soft smile. “I think all of the old gang have come out ahead in looks— the Pulsifers are looking very well for nigh on sixty, and still have energy to chase down the kids who haven’t entirely grown up yet— Newt and Anathema had rather a lot of children, you know.” 

“If only we’d all come out ahead in other regards.” said Aziraphale unhappily. 

“I really really wish I could fix this for you.” said Adam earnestly. Aziraphale smiled sadly.

“I know... I know.” He sighed. “Look at me, a real party pooper.” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows. Aziraphale laughed.

“I’ve got worse than that now that I’m a demon, trust me.” 

“According to Shadwell, you’ve always had worse than that.” said Adam with a wicked smile. 

“That grimy old grouch snitched on me, did he?” asked Aziraphale, smirking.

“Once he figured out his finger wasn’t miraculous, he settled on bragging about being the one person in the world to hear an angel of Heaven swear one o’ the worst words ye could ever come tae know, laddie.” said Adam. 

“Oh, that’s him!” said Crowley, admiring the accent. 

“Quite!” said Aziraphale. 

“So you all—“ Crowley gestured vaguely. “— hung about, together, after all of that.”

“Well, Shadwell and Madam Tracy got married and moved away after, but we all visited— the Pulsifers would pick me, and sometimes the Them, up, and go out to see them. It’s difficult being the only people to really know what reality is, so we needed each other.” said Adam. 

“That makes perfect sense.” said Aziraphale. 

“We wondered what happened to you both.” said Adam, old pain seeping out through his words. He paused, then smiled. “Now, of course, I understand. I’ll have to tell the Pulsifers— although maybe I’ll just tell them about the amnesia and not the killing. Too late for the Shadwells, unfortunately, but I think they cared the least.” he chuckled. 

“Ye great Southern pansy!” said Aziraphale, sentimentally. 

“Maybe I’ll see if Gabriel would let me visit him Upstairs.” said Crowley.

“Always assuming that Heaven was his destination.” said Aziraphale wickedly.

The others laughed. 

“Don’t worry, if he’s Downstairs, I’m sure it’s only Purgatory— he’ll see those pearly gates soon enough.” said Aziraphale, raising his teacup in salute.

“There aren’t any pearly gates.” said Crowley.

“I doubt Shadwell would particularly like pearl anyway.” said Adam with a grin. 

A few days later, Aziraphale had an idea of what to do about his murders.

“What?” asked Crowley. 

“Find the family and friends of my victims and leave them anonymous gifts.”

“Gifts?” 

“Not just anything, Crowley! Food, clothes, money! Anything they need! I’ll pay off debts, refurbish houses! Give my victims proper memorials! As I said. Anything. It has to be big, especially since it doesn’t cost me anything.” said Aziraphale.

“Gabriel is going to notice the increase in frivolous miracles.” warned Crowley.

“To Hell with Gabriel!” bellowed Aziraphale. Crowley and Adam stared at him in disbelief.

“Oh dear... I’m sorry, I forgot myself for a moment.” said Aziraphale, embarrassed.

“It’s all right,” said Crowley, waving his hand dismissively. 

“It happens to the best of us.” said Adam with a wink.

“Would you cover for me? Say you’d made the miracles?” asked Aziraphale.

“Of course, Aziraphale! You don’t need to ask.” said Crowley.

“Well I’m not going to DEMAND that you help me, Crowley, that’s hardly acceptable!” Aziraphale paused. “The question is,” he continued, “how to find out what they need without making them uncomfortable or asking any unnecessary questions— also without them knowing anyone is trying to help them!” 

Crowley smiled devilishly— no amount of holiness could change that smirk.

“What?” asked Aziraphale. “You’ve got an idea, so spit it out.” 

“For a very long time, getting in and out of places I wasn’t supposed to was part of my trade...” drawled Crowley.

“Yes, yes—!—?” said Aziraphale nippily. 

“Almost all celestial beings, especially demons, have the ability to change into some sort of creature. You could figure out what kind of creature you can become, change into that form, and infiltrate the homes of the people you want to help that way. Or... we could just miracle bugs into their homes and listen to them.” said Crowley, ever sly.

“I don’t fancy being an animal for an extended period of time, so I think we should go with the latter option. Perhaps we could miracle and tempt our way into some financial records and such, as they may not talk about everything, especially after so long.” said Aziraphale.

“That’s a good idea.” said Adam.

“Well then,” said Crowley. “Back to America!” 

It wasn’t long before the mysterious benefactor of the Surgeon’s victims was the talk of New York. Most people assumed it was Jessica Whitly, despite her denial.

“I have donated to charity,” she’d say, “but this isn’t my work, I can’t take credit for it. I only wish I knew who it was— they deserve to be rewarded.”

“I’d say this is working out rather well, wouldn’t you?” asked Aziraphale of Crowley one afternoon.

“Yeah,” said Crowley. 

“Do you think they’re happier?” asked Aziraphale. “Really, I mean.” 

“Happiness is relative. I think they’re glad, and I suppose they are happier, just not concerning the loss of their loved ones.”

“No, of course, I know it’s a debt that can never be fully paid, but so long as it’s something.” 

“Of course it is.... When you’ve finished this, what will you do?”

“What do you mean?” 

“You can’t see the kids, you’re dead, so are we going back to England?” 

“Yes, I suppose. Yes. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll go home and pretend it never happened...” 

“You’re still not satisfied, are you?” 

“I don’t think I ever can be. I’ve done what I can in compensation for my victims, but I’ve got more victims than murder victims.” 

“Your family.”

“Yes. For that, I’ll never be forgiven. Not ever. Unforgivable, that’s what I am. I traumatized the boy, he doesn’t sleep! What’s worse? To take a life or to ruin one? To end a person or to irreparably break them? Ainsley is all right, I think. She was only five, she didn’t have time to be hurt. But Malcolm... my poor little boy. And even Jess, she will always be connected to me, stained by me. Suspicious and under suspicion, because of me. Ah, Crowley... it’s impossible, what I’ve done.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up, Aziraphale. We’ll find a way to do something helpful.”

“I hope you’re right.” 

“I’ve already thought of something.”

“Oh?” 

“Get some humans agents. More competent than Shadwell—“

“I don’t suppose the young Pulsifers—? Adam said they’re here in America.”

“Perhaps. But get some humans, have them watch Malcolm. If something happens, if he gets in trouble, we intervene.”

“Yes. It’s the least I can do, keep him safe from the dangers he encounters now, since I can’t erase what he encountered in the past.” 

“He’s got to be out there, Gil, you’ve got to find him.” said Malcolm.

“Trust me, I’ve got the Brass on my case as well, you’re not the only one to smell a rat.” assured Gil. 

“Crowley has a fugitive—“

“He has a body, Bright. Your father was dead.”

“I wish I could be sure.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. A medic pronounced your father dead before any of the funny business about a pathologist started happening. Whitly has been a curse on you and your family, and now he’s gone, so just... be happy won’t you?”

“Don’t you get it? Unless I can see that he is dead, I can’t be sure, there won’t be closure, I’ll stay haunted. Forever. Even if Crowley has just got a body, it’s a body I need to see.”

Gil sighed. 

“I’ll do what I can, but you have to understand, I don’t even know where to start looking.”

Time went by, and Malcolm was forced to accept the fact that his father’s body and the man who had taken it had vanished, unable to be traced. However, one thing he didn’t accept were the mysteries of his past, and he dug rather too deep...

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley carefully.

“What?” asked Aziraphale.

“It’s Malcolm. He’s been kidnapped.”

“What?!”

“He’s been taken... by John Watkins, the Junkyard Killer.” 

Crowley and Aziraphale materialized in the Whitly foyer, and met the sight of Watkins swinging an axe at Jessica and Ainsley.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “let’s get that son of a bitch.” 

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale ran at Watkins, unafraid of the axe swinging toward him. Miraculously, Watkins seemed to lose his aim. While Aziraphale acted as a red flag for Watkins, Crowley lunged from behind. Aziraphale dodged, and the axe plunged into the wall. Then Aziraphale tackled Watkins as well, and with two angels of old on top of him, Watkins was subdued. Aziraphale took the axe from the wall and pointed it at the criminal menacingly.

“Now you tell me what you’ve done with my boy, or I’ll relieve your shoulders of your head.” 

“He’s in the room, the secret room, the one we used.” said Watkins. 

“Is he alive?” asked Aziraphale. “Because if you’ve hurt him, so help me, I’ll—“

Watkins nodded furiously.

“He’s alive, he’s alive.” he said frantically.

“Crowley, get him up. Hold him. We had better take him with us.” said Aziraphale.

Crowley hauled Watkins to his feet. A pair of handcuffs miraculously appeared from Crowley’s pocket, and he cuffed the villain’s hands. 

“Come on.” 

“You’re alive. You’re alive!” gasped Jessica in horror.

“Sorry to disappoint you, my dear!” said Aziraphale. “But you and our children were in trouble, what else could I do?”

“How did you do it? How did you know?” asked Ainsley.

“No time for that. Malcolm now, explanations later.” replied her father.

Jessica took her gun from its drawer.

“I hope you don’t intend to shoot me,” said Aziraphale amusedly.

“Not yet. For now it’s for him,” said Jessica, motioning toward Watkins. 

“So I should hope.” said Crowley. 

“Let’s go.” said Aziraphale and Ainsley together. Aziraphale smiled.

The group proceeded into the basement, and then into the room where Malcolm was. And they caught sight of him.

“Stop!” cried Ainsley. 

Malcolm was about to smash his hand with a hammer to get free of the chains Watkins had bound him with. 

Seeing his mother and sister, he put it down. Then, he saw the others.

“You’re not dead. You’re NOT dead!” cried Malcolm. “I knew it!” 

“No, my boy, I’m not dead. Now let me get you out of those.” With the axe, Aziraphale demolished the chains. He knelt beside his son. “Let’s see... well, you’re not in so rough a shape, are you?”

“I was stabbed!” said Malcolm.

“Well, I guess he was planning a dramatic and meaningful end for you later because, on the grand scale of things, he only scratched you. He must’ve wanted you to think you were going to die, but not to really kill you just then.”

“But... all the blood...”

“You were scared, it probably seemed like more than it actually was.”

“But I know—“ 

“Look for yourself, son.”

Malcolm looked. It was true, the wound was, under the circumstances, hardly worth mentioning. But Malcolm knew it hadn’t been so before. But what could he say? He had no way of proving anything otherwise.

“Yes...”

Aziraphale went to put arms around his son and help him up, but Malcolm pushed him away.

“Now, Malcolm, really? You’re going to be angry now?” 

“I appreciate the rescue but this hasn’t changed anything.” replied Malcolm.

“I understand, I’m not saying it should change anything, but you’re malnourished and injured, just let me help you. You don’t have to like it or me, but don’t let emotions get in the way of common sense.” said Aziraphale. 

Malcolm almost said if only Martin had thought of that years ago before murdering people, but thought better of it.

“Fine.” he said instead. Aziraphale helped Malcolm up and the group headed back into the basement. “There’s been someone acting as a benefactor to your victims...” said Malcolm. “It isn’t... you, is it?”

“Of course it’s me.” said Aziraphale. 

The light in the basement of the Whitly house was one that flickered. It had always flickered. It was flickering now.

And Watkins saw his chance. As the light flickered out, he rammed Jessica and grabbed her gun, turning it on everyone. 

“Now you must listen to me,” he said. On and off went the light, on and off... “Family, family, family!” On... Off. On. “The fatal flaw of the Whitlys.” Off... On. Off. “Tell me, Martin, was it worth it?” 

Off.

BANG!

In the darkness, Malcolm felt something move against him, and then his arms were heavy. 

On, off.

Something else moved in the dark.

On.

Crowley had grabbed the gun back from Watkins.

Off, on.

And Malcolm looked down. He was holding his father, who was breathing shakily.

WHACK.

Off.

On.

Crowley had knocked Watkins out with the end of the gun.

Off, on. 

Crowley had crossed back to Malcolm.

“Give him to me. Let’s go upstairs.”

“What’s— what’s happened?” asked Jessica shakily.

“He— he jumped in front of me in the dark.” stuttered Malcolm.

“Your father took a shot for you?” asked Jessica. 

Crowley was upstairs in an instant, and had laid Aziraphale on the couch, and knelt beside him.

Malcolm, too, knelt beside his father. His brain was running off its tracks. Watkins had just told him that his father, a narcissist, had tried to kill him, and yet here it was that Martin Whitly had taken a shot for him. Surely this couldn’t be the same man?

“Dad?”

“It’s been a long time since you called me that... and meant it.” said Aziraphale. He grimaced. Malcolm looked at the wound.

Somehow, he’d never thought he’d see his father with a hole in his chest, blood everywhere... He pressed down on the wound. His father cried out.

“We have to stop the bleeding.” said Malcolm firmly.

“Let me,” said Crowley, taking over for Malcolm. “Everything is going to be just fine.” He closed his eyes, and his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I’ll call an ambulance.” said Ainsley. 

Aziraphale took the hands of his children.

“Now, listen. Carefully now, don’t interrupt. I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done. For killing those people. For how I killed those people, how many I killed, the lives of their families. And more than anything else I’m sorry for how affected you. All of you. I’m so so sorry. And I don’t expect you to believe me. A pathological liar. A villain who shuts off his emotions to enable him to hurt others. Why should you? But I had to say it. I can’t explain it, you’d never believe me, but let’s just say I found something that I lost. I remembered something forgotten and I see clearer now. I cannot tell you that I didn’t enjoy the heinous crimes I committed, because that would be a lie. But I can tell you that I regret committing them because that is true. Maybe... maybe knowing I am sorry will help you move on from that. From me. I know you’ve been trying to but there’s really no way to do that without my cooperation, and now I’m cooperating.”

“You what? You’re what?” asked Jessica incredulously. 

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. His eyes closed.

“No!” cried Crowley. “No, you can’t have—!” 

Malcolm felt for his father’s pulse. He shook his head.

“He’s gone.”

Crowley leapt up. He paced back and forth. And suddenly, he stopped short and shuddered. A long, terrible, spine-creeping shudder. Then he smiled.

“Ah, my clever, clever angel!” He turned to Jessica. “Where’s your bathroom? Uh— one with a mirror.”

“What?” shrieked Ainsley. “Our father is DEAD and you’re asking—“

“He was my BEST friend, my ONLY friend, don’t THINK I don’t CARE! I have my reasons.” growled Crowley. The demon he once had been flashed in his eyes.

“Down there, to the left.” directed Jessica.

Crowley rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He took a breath and looked into the mirror.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. The miracle took too long.” said Crowley to the mirror.

Aziraphale smiled back at him.

“Never mind that, old boy. It would seem we didn’t explode!”

“No,” said Crowley with a chuckle. “I’m glad you could possess me.” 

Aziraphale snorted. Crowley grinned.

“Time was, you wouldn’t have found that funny!”

“Mm, at least some things have changed for the better in this whole debacle!”

“Right.”

“Look, I need a favor.”

“Yes?” 

“Kill Watkins, will you, my dear? If you don’t, they will throw him in jail but there’s always a chance he will get out by some means, and he’d come back for revenge and slaughter my family— I can’t risk that.” Aziraphale nodded toward Crowley’s hand. “You’ve still got that.”

Crowley looked down. He still had Jessica’s gun. Aziraphale smiled the wicked smile so characteristic of Martin Whitly.

“It’s quick, practically painless. Certainly so if you get him while he’s unconscious. He’ll never know what happened. Consider it only the coup de grâce.” 

“You act like I need convincing to kill a nasty little bastard like Watkins.” said Crowley with amusement. 

“As I recall, you were so against killing that you forced an angel to do it— or nearly.”

“Adam was different. He was a boy. I obliterated Ligur from existence, don’t forget.” 

“Touché, my Angel of Death.” Aziraphale winked. Crowley blushed. 

“Let me get this over with.” 

He left the bathroom and headed down into the basement. Malcolm caught sight of him and followed. 

“What are you doing?” Malcolm asked.

“None of your business.” said Crowley. 

“My house, my business.” said Malcolm. “You’re going to kill Watkins, aren’t you?”

Crowley turned on Malcolm.

“And what if I am? What are you going to do about it? Try to stop me? I assure you, you couldn’t. And why should you want to? It only leaves the option for him to hurt you again someday, it only disrupts you having closure.” 

“No one is born broken, some one breaks us. It’s not entirely Watkins’ fault he’s a terrible person, is it? Don’t you think killing him is cold-hearted?” 

“Cold-hearted to save a person from being chained up and stuck behind bars like an animal for the rest of their life? I don’t think so. Consider his death only the coup de grâce.”

“So you think they should’ve killed Martin Whitly?” 

Crowley stopped in his tracks. He thought a moment.

“Under different circumstances,” he said slowly. “Yes.” 

“And what circumstances would those be?” asked Malcolm. Crowley didn’t answer.

Malcolm sighed frustratedly: if there was one thing Malcolm hated more about Crowley than his unhealthy obsession with and release of the Surgeon, it was quite possibly his infuriating silence. He acted like he had the answer to the universe in his head and refused to give it up. He was so convincing that Malcolm almost believed he did. 

Crowley continued down into the basement with Malcolm at his heels until they reached the still unconscious Watkins. Crowley unhandcuffed him and placed the cuffs back into his pocket, watching Malcolm carefully the whole time. 

“What will you do, Malcolm? What will you do...”

“I’m not sure. Would you shoot me if I tried to stop you?”

“That’s a good question.”

BANG. 

And it was over. 

Crowley had shot Watkins through the head.

“You really thought I was going to deliberate with you?” asked Crowley with a smirk.

“Aa—,” said Malcolm. “I suppose I’m used to being able to talk people down.”

“You understand people’s minds and therefore how to manipulate them.” said Crowley. “But trust me, boy, you don’t know my mind. Try to profile me if you like, you’ll never get it. You even fail with common people from time to time, so you’d certainly fail with me.”

“What do you mean by ‘common people’? Mentally unstable people do not assign themselves as mentally unstable, so if you’re one of those ‘uncommon’ people, you wouldn’t say you were, which must mean you aren’t, so you don’t mean the mentally different, like the sociopaths and psychopaths. Who would you see as common? Why do you see yourself as uncommon? Is it ego? You certainly have a large ego, presenting yourself as a ‘guardian angel’, unstoppable, a man of many talents. But somehow I don’t think that’s it. Ego doesn’t stop identification, you wouldn’t think it could stop my profile. So what is it?” 

“You’re going to run yourself in circles.” Crowley emptied the remaining bullets from the barrel into his pocket, rubbed the fingerprints off of the gun, and handed it to Malcolm. “Go back upstairs.”

“You just committed a murder.” said Malcolm. “You expect me to let you walk away?”

“I don’t see that you have a choice.” 

“What about Martin?”

“What about him?”

“There’s a body upstairs on the couch!”

“Surely your mother has plans.”

“She wants to cremate him and dump his ashes down the dirtiest toilet she can find. I figured you’d want to do better.”

“It’s not a question of if I want to, it’s a question of if you want to. But I don’t think this has anything to do with Martin’s body. It has to do with the fact that you want to know why I went from trying to help you to faking your father’s death. You know I felt sympathy for him, but that I didn’t condone his acts. So why would I free him? And how could I free him? How could I possibly have faked his death? And now here I am, about to leave him and Watkins dead in your house and saunter away without consequence. You have to know. You have to. That’s a distinct but damning part of you, Malcolm, your need for answers. But as your father said with his dying breath, there are some things that just can’t be explained.”

“Because there’s no way in Hell I believe in God.”

“That’s only part of it. If you were a priest, perhaps you would believe me, but I also think any priest would be confounded in his own faith afterwards. Or maybe he would just call a mental hospital— you’d certainly do the latter. It’s something than can’t be told, you have to be shown.”

“Then show me.”

“Ah... but ignorance is bliss, Malcolm. Learn that.” 

Crowley turned his back to Malcolm and left the house through the secret room. Malcolm didn’t try to do anything. It was true— what power did he have to stop Anthony J. Crowley? 

“What are we going to do?” sighed Jessica. “We’ve got your father in a freezer and I said I was going to dump his ashes down the dirtiest of toilets, but now that I have the power to do it...”

“You’re not sure you can.” said Ainsley. 

“Leave it to Martin Whitly to apologize on his death bed, just to haunt me forever— all the more reason I should defy him and send him down a toilet anyway, but still... No, he couldn’t have possibly meant it. He was manipulating us, the same as ever!” said Jessica.

Malcolm said nothing, despite the obvious want for his input. He just sat there, fidgeting in thought.

Jessica sighed.

“What’s wrong, Malcolm?”

“Nothing, Mother!” said Malcolm with cheer.

“Malcolm, it’s obvious you’re lying.” said Ainsley. Malcolm sighed.

“Look, I know it seems stupid, but we thought he was dead, then he wasn’t, now he’s dead again... It feels like he’ll come back again. Like none of this is real, like it’s a night terror I’ll never wake up from, that I’ll never know when to believe something. I know the first time we didn’t have his body, and that this time we watched him die, but I can’t help but feel that if anyone could fool us a second time it’s Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Malcolm... I don’t know what to tell you.” said Jessica. “Your sister and I feel the same way, but what are we supposed to do? There’s a body to deal with, and it is your father’s: out of paranoia, I made sure a DNA test was done— they matched his DNA to yours from when you were in the hospital. It’s him, Malcolm. The question is what to do with him— I can only hope someone finds and cuts down Crowley, but there’s nothing we can do about him. Now, I wouldn’t put it past your father to have orchestrated Watkins’ kidnapping of you and even his own shooting just to get us on his good side— you remember what he did to Ainsley and her gentleman friend. Why shouldn’t he do it on a grander scale? His death was a mistake— he couldn’t have been sure of the shot in the dark anymore than Watkins could’ve. His plan went wrong, and he died, so Crowley killed Watkins as punishment for firing a fatal shot. Not to mention the benefactor part— another lie to get us to forgive him. See? It can be explained when you really think about it. He was a manipulative monster, and deserves to be remembered and forgotten as such— down the toilet he goes.”

“You’re right. Do you guys mind if I, uh, go for a walk?” Malcolm gestured toward the room.

“Go ahead.” said Ainsley.

“As you wish.” said Jessica. 

Malcolm left and headed to Central Park. He loved to just relax on the park benches, and occasionally, stand by the water and feed the ducks. 

Although he had told his mother that she was right, he still had doubts. Why would Martin have Watkins shoot him? Surely bursting in to save the day was enough? Why would a man so obsessed with himself worth risk that very self for a stunt? He was too much of a narcissist to put himself in real, intimate danger like that. Why over do it, run unnecessary risks? Surely a man who got away with murder for years would be just as meticulous now? And if it was a stunt, not meant to kill, why the apology? Why acceptance of imminent death? Martin Whitly believed he was always in control, he would’ve barred on the side of living, tried to save his skin instead of apologizing and letting go. And why apologize at all if he didn’t mean it? He didn’t fear Hell. Could Crowley have put the fear of God into to him? Definitely not, for for a God fearing man, Crowley seemed terribly lawless. Malcolm shook his head. Once he had needed to accept that his father was a terrible person; now he had to accept that he might’ve learned to be a good one.

“So... Adam can’t help, what will we do? You can’t stay here forever.” said Crowley, addressing Aziraphale in a mirror. 

“I suppose I’ll have to suck it up and visit Downstairs. I’ll have to prove to them that I’m worthy of a new body. I’ll have to promise them something truly demonic.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Don’t worry, I have just the thing.”

“Oh?” 

“Oh, yes. I’m the Surgeon, remember? And I’ve just found my next victim. His name is Nicholas Endicott. He’s a monster. He makes me look rather good, in fact, and I think his time is up. He’s a danger to my family, and my ticket out of Hell.” 

“How is he a danger to you?” asked Crowley. Aziraphale sighed.

“My final victim. Malcolm’s Girl in the Box. I didn’t kill her. She convinced me to let her go by giving me information on an infinitely vile and infinitely powerful man.”

“Endicott.”

“Yes. I blackmailed him, and he had my execution stayed and my prison digs upgraded to a far more posh sort of isolation. The deal was that if snitched on him, he’d ruin my family. So now, in light of Watkins especially, it’s over for him.”

“Clever angel.”

Aziraphale appeared in the filthy office halls of Hell. 

“Aziraphale.” said Hastur. “Or should we call you.... AziraFELL.” 

“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re failing miserably.” replied Aziraphale. “You underestimate me. Just because Crowley made such an awful demon, and we were partners in celestial crime, don’t think I’ll be inadequate. Haven’t you seen my work up there? I’m the Surgeon.”

“You killed people. It’s fun, but not very impressive. Many of those souls went Upstairs, which isn’t much use to our Master.” said Hastur. 

“I just got you a soul. Undoubtedly John Watkins belongs to our Master.” said Aziraphale. 

“Iss not enough.” said Hastur. 

“Give me a new body and I’ll get you a bigger fish to fry.” 

“What fish would that be?” 

“Nicholas Endicott. That’s a tasty morsel for you, surely. He’ll be quite nice roasted.”

“Mm.” said Hastur, thinking it over as much as his unimaginative demon brain could. “All right.” he said. “I’ll talk to them about a new body. But there’ll be paperwork.”

“Yes... how horrid.”

“S’pposed to be horrid here.”

Aziraphale examined his new body. It looked the same, they hadn’t demonized it, luckily— he didn’t fancy the idea of funny eyes or odd feet or some such thing. 

He rose through the earth and then discretely materialized outside of Endicott’s office building. He strode in, whistling Another One Bites the Dust.

“Is Mr. Endicott in?” he asked the secretary.

“No, sir.” she replied. 

“Thank you.” he said. She wouldn’t remember him...

Aziraphale left, and then materialized into Endicott’s office. He settled down in Endicott’s chair and got comfortable— perhaps he had to wait for Endicott, but he had all time in the world. 

Nicholas Endicott walked into his office. It wasn’t until he had closed the door behind him that he caught sight of Aziraphale. He froze for a moment, then laughed it off.

“Jesus Christ! Martin Whitly! They said you died.” 

“I did.” answered Aziraphale calmly. 

“Heh, right.” said Endicott, shaking his head. “How’d you get past my secretary?” 

“I didn’t.” Aziraphale replied. Endicott paused.

“Look,” he said with the sort of chuckle that indicates an imminent loss of temper. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Martin, but I’m pretty sick of it. Whatever your point is with all this hocus pocus just get to it already.”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Okay. As you wish.” 

He stood up and walked over to Endicott. 

“What’ll it be?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Endicott. 

“Time’s up.” said Aziraphale. Endicott laughed.

“You think you’re going to kill me? You know that’s impossible, right? I’ve got men just downstairs, I only have to yell. And naturally, I have my own means of defense here in this room.” 

“All of that is useless, Nicholas.” 

“How’s that?”

“Because I’m not Martin Whitly. You’re right, he died. My real name is Aziraphale. I was an angel, but I sauntered vaguely downwards and now I work for Someone else. I’ve got a reputation to uphold Down There, you know. Getting a new body doesn’t come for free. You’re the price. Besides... I don’t want you around. You’re a threat to my family and many others. See, my best friend is an angel, so I’m helping him out too. All around, it’s a bonus for everyone— everyone except you. I can’t say your residence in Hell will be nice, so I’m letting you chose how you go. I’ll make it painless, as a curtesy, but you’re also welcome to go down fighting, if you like. But no one will hear you, that’s a fact. It’s inevitable— just look behind you.” 

Endicott turned.

HELLO. boomed Death. 

Endicott collapsed, but Aziraphale caught him.

“Look at Him, Nicholas, look at Him.” 

“T-this c-can’t be real!” cried Endicott childishly.

IT IS REAL, MORTAL. YOU ARE MINE. 

“Please, please!” said Endicott, quaking with fright.

“Oh, please, I’m immune and indifferent to begging.” said Aziraphale. “So PICK.” 

Endicott eyed the windows. Could he jump and survive? No, it was too high, and a suicide in his case would be more humiliating. 

“I-I—“ he stuttered, trying to think of how he’d like to die; he’d never thought of that.

“Hurry up, or I’ll pick for you.” said Aziraphale, pushing Endicott against the wall.

“What are my options?” croaked Endicott. “You said it could be painless.”

“Anything you like. Anything in the world. It’s all at my fingertips. Want a drug that knocks you out and then kills you? You’ll never feel it.” said Aziraphale.

“I run a pharmaceutical business, it could be construed as suicide.” said Endicott.

“A simple bullet in the brain, then?” asked Aziraphale. “Ah!!” 

Endicott had pulled a penknife from up his sleeve and stuck it into Aziraphale’s chest.

“Help! Help! I’m being attacked!” hollered Endicott.

“Satan damn! This one’s brand new! And I’m sick of paperwork!” cried Aziraphale, seeing a red flower of blood blooming on his shirt just below his shoulder. “You had your chance.”

Endicott gasped in pain as a knife went into his abdomen. 

“They say it’s the most painful way to die.” said Aziraphale with cheerful cruelty. “And as I said, no one will hear you.” Endicott’s death would become a cold case...

Endicott spluttered trying to form words or even just a cry, but nothing came but a hoarse croaking. Death moved toward him. 

WILL YOU GIVE IN NOW, OR DO YOU WISH TO DRAG IT OUT FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR PRIDE? 

Endicott grunted, which to the average person means very little, but Death is neither average nor a person, and therefore He knew exactly what it meant. 

VERY WELL THEN.

Endicott suddenly felt that he had strength again. He smirked. He stood up.

“He’s spared me, Martin.” he said wickedly.

“Not... exactly.” said Aziraphale, pointing to the floor. Endicott looked, and saw himself lying there.

“Oh.” 

“You’re coming with me.” said Aziraphale. He grabbed Endicott by the arm, Death spread His wings, and in a flash Endicott found himself being dragged into the halls of Hell. Unholy whoops and hollers echoed off of the filthy walls. He shuddered. 

A man with black eyes and a toad-like creature on his head appeared.

“So this is him, then?”

“Yes, this is him.” replied Aziraphale. 

Endicott realized that Death had vanished. His work was done.

“You’re Nicholas Endicott?” asked the black eyed man.

“Y-yes, I am.” said Endicott, seeing no way out of it.

“Do you really think I’m stupid enough to kill the wrong person, Hastur?” asked Aziraphale, a trifle testily and very snobbishly. 

“Dunno. You and Crowley had the wrong boy for twelve years.”

“That was the nuns’ fault, not ours. Actually, if you hadn’t burned the nunnery, the whole thing would’ve been a lot simpler! That’s what I call useless sadism.” 

“Least I stalled your interferin’ for a little while. And your sadism is more useless.”

“Shut up!” 

“All right, just hand him over.” 

“Very well then.” 

Aziraphale shoved Endicott toward Hastur. 

“Enjoy your new home, Nicholas.” He turned to leave.

“Oi!” said Hastur.

“What, Hastur?” asked Aziraphale with a sigh.

“You gonna need another set of papers to file?” Hastur gestured toward the penknife still sticking out of Aziraphale’s chest.

“No”, Aziraphale replied. “I think I can handle this myself. I am a surgeon, you’ll recall.” 

“Yeah, I recall.” said Hastur annoyedly, thinking it was useless information and that while he knew humbleness was for the good ones, he wished this new demon wasn’t such a prideful git. 

Aziraphale vanished, and Endicott felt unimaginable fear overwhelm him: he knew what came next.


	7. Still Time to Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Aziraphale stumbled onto Earth. He knew his time was almost run out: his miracles would fail to keep him going and he’d die. He had to mend the damage. Desperately, he tried to think of where Crowley would be at the moment, but blood loss was slowing his thought process down too.

He sat down. It was grassy. He wasn’t sure where he’d ended up. He could see water. He was against the tree line, or what there was of a tree line, anyway.

He really didn’t want to die again. He was getting pretty sick of it. All in all, this would be his fifth time, although it would only be the second time he’d have to do paperwork. He really hated that paperwork though. Not to mention that even immortality aside, dying wasn’t very pleasant. Knowing you could come back from it didn’t stop it from hurting. Hastur was probably right— he was going to need another set of papers, because his strength was leaving him, he wasn’t going to be able to fix this. It would take a miracle. A proper miracle, not one of his, not a demon’s, and who knew where Crowley was— even if he knew, he was too weak to get there. Now it would have to be in the Almighty’s playing cards...

“Dad?” 

Aziraphale looked up. His blurry vision focused for a moment and he saw Malcolm standing over him. 

“My boy...” Aziraphale said weakly. 

“You’re DEAD! I SAW YOU DIE!” cried Malcolm desperately.

“Yes, and it would seem you’re about to see it again! Agh, for Satan’s sake!” said Aziraphale, pulling himself up into a sitting position. “Damn, damn that man! I mean, he is damned but...” 

“I... I don’t understand what’s happening. Am I dreaming? When will I wake up?...” 

“It’s not a dream, son. Have I ever once in your dreams told you what you were seeing was real? I doubt it, because you always know deep down what’s real and what isn’t. This is reality, it just needs to be explained.” 

“Then explain it to me.”

“I will it’s just— Well— Well, I’m not really in a fit state at the moment, I’m afraid. I’m likely to get cut off by Death before I finish.”

“Right.”

Malcolm knelt beside his father. 

“What happened?” 

“I was dealing out some due justice.” replied Aziraphale.

Malcolm looked surprised. He chuckled.

“You? Justice? Victim twenty five...” 

“I was getting rid of a very nasty and dangerous person! Nicholas Endicott...” said Aziraphale.

“A person more dangerous than yourself?” laughed Malcolm.

“You think I got this from playing checkers? And I was shot by Watkins, remember.” said Aziraphale.

“Yes, I do remember, and no, I suppose not, especially since you don’t play checkers.” replied Malcolm with a smile. He looked at the wound carefully. “It doesn’t look like it’s too deep, it hasn’t punctured a lung, but I’m surprised blood loss hasn’t gotten you yet.”

“Miraculously...” muttered Aziraphale.

“I’ll call an ambulance.” said Malcolm resolutely.

“No, no, I’m dead, remember? No need to cause confusion. Everything we need... is in there.” Aziraphale pointed to Malcolm.

“In me.” said Malcolm in flat disbelief. Aziraphale nodded. In one swift movement—

“No!!” cried Malcolm.

— Aziraphale had pulled the penknife from his chest and dropped it into the grass. Blood gushed afresh; he shuddered.

“Trust me.” he said. He put Malcolm’s hands over the wound. “Think about it. Very hard. Believe that you can heal it and you will.” 

“... What?” said Malcolm faintly. 

“My boy... You think you’re just a man, but you’re so much more.” 

“What do you mean, more than a man?” 

“You’re part principality. Principality! An angel! I know people make jokes about that these days but it’s true. And you’re not the only one. Your sister is part principality too. You see... Crowley and I... We belong to Heaven and Hell, Malcolm, we work for them. Of course, Ainsley doesn’t know what she is yet either but... she’d be very excited to find out, should we tell her.”

“I... I... You’ve really lost your mind.” 

“Listen, my boy, you’ve got to do it now. Now!” Aziraphale begged.

Malcolm knew it was foolish. Of course it was foolish, it wasn’t even possible! Yet something spoke in him that he couldn’t deny, something of all the strange things that had happened to him and around him in the past few months that he just couldn’t explain. He needed explanations, even if they came in the form of half-cocked theories from a dying, touch-deprived psychopath who’d finally lost the last of his marbles. An explanation was an explanation, he could choose later whether or not to believe it. 

“Okay.” 

Malcolm furrowed his brow, he thought very very hard, did his best to believe...

And it happened.

The blood evaporated like water in the sunlight and the gaping hole lessened. 

Aziraphale gasped, and color flooded back into his face. 

Before Malcolm knew what was happening, his father was embracing him, his shoulder on his head, weeping.

“Oh, you’ve done it!! You’ve done it!! Ah, my boy, my boy—!! I knew you could!! Ah, my dear!” 

Ever since the day he learned his father killed people, Malcolm never wanted to touch him, let alone hug him. But here Malcolm felt like it was the right thing to do; his father was right, he did know what was real and what wasn’t. What had just happened was real and so were his father’s emotions. It wasn’t an act. Malcolm had always questioned everything about his father, but for once he knew, clear as day, that this was all true. So,

Malcolm hugged him back.

His father cried harder. 

“I never thought you’d— never thought— you!— after all this time...” 

“It’s okay.” Malcolm reassured him. He wasn’t even sure why it was okay, but he was sure it was— for now. 

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, letting go. He looked around. “Central Park! It’s a miracle no one has seen us!”

“There’s not much action among the trees.” said Malcolm with a smile. “So... Are you going to give me that explanation?” 

Aziraphale finished telling Malcolm about his six thousand years with Crowley.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“Well, you are a pathological liar,” said Malcolm, “but I think I have a solution— we need to find Crowley. Also, you’ll have to show me how I control my wings— I’m assuming I have them too?” 

“Of course, silly boy— what would an angel be if they couldn’t fly? They’d hardly be celestial, that’s for certain!” 

Crowley rode the escalator up to Heaven.

“I want to talk to Gabriel.” he said to the angels guarding the door.

One of angel guards went through the door, and moment later returned and showed Crowley in.

Gabriel was there waiting.

“This had better be quick, I’ve got a lot going on at the moment.” 

“You tried to kill us again, didn’t you?” asked Crowley. “Aziraphale and I.” 

“Haven’t we already been over this? Yeah, we did— duh! How else do you think you’d end up the wrong way around? You got in the way of the Great Plan!”

“We’ve been through this! You could be being tested! The Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan could be two different things!”

“The World must end. We spared you in the hopes that switched as angel and demon your degradation would start the new Armageddon. Clearly we wrong. You grew plants and Aziraphale got himself stuck in a cage. You are simply IN THE WAY of the Great Plan! Why are you so attached to Earth? It’s just a planet. You helped make billions of planets, it’s the same old same old.” 

“But this planet has LIFE! Imperfect life, sure, but it’s life, and very creative. Humans have thought of things you’ve never dreamt of. They can’t do that if you kill them.”

“Who cares? They’re just humans! They’re lesser then us! Also, I don’t dream, I don’t sleep.”

“Another brilliant idea the humans came up with! I slept for a century once... it was amazing, let me tell you.”

“I don’t want you to tell me anything! It’s not your place! Your place is to do what the Almighty commands, and what I tell!” shouted Gabriel.

“‘Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die.’” quoted Crowley.

“That’s... human poetry, isn’t it?” asked Gabriel. 

“Correct. It’s from The Charge of the Light Brigade by Lord Alfred Tennyson.” 

“But you don’t read.”

“I do now. The angelic state has done a lot for me, you know.” 

“Read maybe, but read poetry? No. You’d never do that. That’s Aziraphale’s brand of self degradation.”

“I’m not allowed to branch out?” teased Crowley.

“You haven’t.” said Gabriel in a deadly tone. Crowley chuckled.

“Okay, fine, you win! I’m not Anthony J. Crowley. I’m Malcolm Whitly, and my father taught me that poem, because you’re right, it is an Aziraphale thing!” 

“Ha! So they‘ve told you? So confident! Why? You can’t beat me to the door, or escape down the escalator before I and several other archangels reach you.” said Gabriel.

The rest of the archangels appeared in the room. 

“I don’t need to get to the door,” said Malcolm, leaning up against the wall.

“How’s that?” asked Gabriel.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Malcolm. “Why do you have an escalator, when all you need is a window?” 

In a split second, Malcolm had broken a window in Heaven’s wall and was tumbling infinite feet downward.

“Get him!” cried Gabriel.

Malcolm spread his wings and began circling the Skyscraper in a downward spiral, looking in every window for a split second. He knew what he was looking for— when Crowley was still an original angel, he had learned about how it worked... Now he had told Malcolm about it. And finally Malcolm saw it: a globe. He plunged himself through the window with the archangels on his tail. Just as the Archangel Sandolphin reached out to grab him, Malcolm touched the globe and vanished.

And he landed...

“Shit. Australia.” 

He snapped his fingers and was outside the house his father and Crowley were staying in. He rushed inside.

“I’ve done it! I’ve done it!” 

“Satisfied?” asked Aziraphale.

“Yes, very. I believe you.” said Malcolm. “Just letting me do this was proof, but Gabriel ...” 

“Showed his true colors, did he?” said Aziraphale.

“Yes.” Malcolm replied. “He was 100% conclusive.” 

“Good, now give me my body back, I don’t like yours.” said Crowley staring lividly with Malcolm’s eyes. Malcolm crossed to Crowley and they switched back.

“Heh, thanks for the compliment!” said Malcolm.

“Shut up!” said Crowley.

“Do you suppose we ought to tell Adam that we’ve told Malcolm?” asked Aziraphale. “Maybe he’d like to know someone close to his own age that’s in similar circumstances to himself— although there is a great deal of difference between Satan and myself, let’s not forget.” 

“I wouldn’t mind getting to know him either,” said Malcolm. “Although I think we owe it to Mother and Ainsley to tell them the truth as well.”

“Your sister is one thing, but your mother... I’m not so sure, Malcolm.” said Aziraphale nervously. 

“Don’t you want her to know you were an angel who helped to save the world? It certainly puts your transgressions in perspective, forgiveness or not.” said Malcolm.

“Well, that’s the thing... I’m not sure it will cut it— she’s more likely to cut me, especially since she’ll have to find out she was married to a demon!” cried Aziraphale. 

“Oi!” said Crowley defensively, as he was still rather sensitive about that six thousand years of his life. “That’s happened more than you’d think throughout history!”

“What happened with Merlin was an isolated incident!” said Aziraphale a trifle testily.

“Be that as it may, King Arthur didn’t seem very bothered, and neither did Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table!” said Crowley, with just a hint of mockery. 

“Oh, all right!” said Aziraphale.

“Sorry, I’m a bit lost here.” said Malcolm with an awkward grin. 

“It was said,” explained Aziraphale. “That Merlin’s father was a demon. Crowley couldn’t confirm this for me because none of the demons ever owned up to it since Merlin turned out to be a halfway decent fellow, but we think that’s it probably true, especially given the boy’s affinity for magic.” 

“Merlin and King Arthur were real?” asked Malcolm incredulously.

“All the things you’ve learned today and you’re questioning that?” asked Crowley.

“I suppose it was sort of stupid.” admitted Malcolm. “So you‘ll tell Mother?” 

“Well...” said Aziraphale cautiously. “Why don’t you tell her?”

Malcolm materialized outside of his family home. He rang the doorbell. Jessica opened the door.

“MALCOLM! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? How dare you not answer our calls and disappear from the face of the Earth!” 

“How did you know I wasn’t on Earth?” asked Malcolm playfully. Jessica sighed.

“I am not in the mood for jokes.”

“I’m serious!” said Malcolm, still smiling.

“Please tell me you haven’t been doing drugs.” said Jessica. “At least not that kind.”

“No drugs, I promise.” said Malcolm. He stepped inside and Jessica closed the door.

“Is Ainsley here?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes, why?” asked Jessica.

“Just go get her, I’ll explain in a moment.” said Malcolm. Jessica frowned, but disappeared further into the house to get Ainsley. Upon returning with her daughter, Jessica called Malcolm into the parlor, and they all sat down.

“Well?” asked Jessica. 

“There’s not really any good way of explaining this, so I’m just going to go right for the deep end.” said Malcolm. He snapped his fingers. Jessica and Ainsley found themselves standing on the a wall, Malcolm beside them.

“What the hell did you just do?” asked Ainsley. “Is that— is that Dad?” 

There was a white-clad angel beside them.

“Yes.” replied Malcolm. “But he’s not really here. Just watch.”

An enormous snake crawled up the side of the wall, beside the angel, and morphed into a man.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon.” said Crowley. 

“I need a drink.” said Jessica. She rose from her seat and disappeared into an adjoining room. Ainsley stood up too.

“Do you need a drink?” asked Malcolm. 

“No,” said Ainsley. She paused. “Nobody can see us through our windows, right?”

Malcolm shook his head.

“It would be pretty difficult.” 

“Good.” Ainsley replied. She closed her eyes. Her brow furrowed in concentration. A moment later, she had done it. 

“They suit you.” said Malcolm, admiring his sister’s wings. 

“They’re gorgeous!” said Ainsley giddily. Jessica walked in. She stared.

“Maybe I need a stronger drink.” 

“We’re angels!” cried Ainsley. 

“Exactly.” said Jessica. “I married a demon and have winged children— I’m going to need a lot to drink.”

“But he saved humanity! He’s an angel!” said Ainsley. “And Malcolm and I... we have the power to change the world!”

“You always did, my darling, you didn’t need miracles to do that.” said Jessica. “And I didn’t need to have my reality completely smashed to smithereens— especially the part of it concerning Martin Whitly.” 

“To you he’s still evil?” asked Ainsley.

“If you think I’ll ever trust that man, or whatever he is, again, you’re greatly mistaken.” said Jessica.

“But—“ 

“I will cross my Martin Whitly bridges as I get to them and not before!” Jessica said firmly. 

“Fair enough.”

Adam stepped off of the airplane.

Crowley, Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s family were there waiting for him.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” whispered Ainsley, nudging her mother.

“Did you miss the part where they told us he was the son of Satan?” asked Jessica frustratedly. Ainsley shrugged.

“We hardly have sterling reputations either.” 

“There’s a difference!” 

“Well yeah but... he’s the only person like us.” 

Jessica pursed her lips at this comment. 

Adam walked over and embraced Crowley and Aziraphale; then he put out his hand to Malcolm.

“You must be Malcolm! It’s nice to meet ya.” 

Malcolm shook Adam’s hand.

“And you must be Adam. It’s nice to meet you too!”

Adam turned to Jessica and Ainsley and made a little bow.

“Ladies, it’s my pleasure. Ainsley and Jessica, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” said Jessica regally. Ainsley smiled at him. He smiled kindly back. 

Jessica frowned. Aziraphale sensed the animosity.

“So, erm, home for some refreshments?” 

It was a few months later, and Aziraphale and Malcolm sat alone in the Whitly house, about to have tea.

“Adam and yourself seem to be getting on rather nicely,” commented Aziraphale. 

“Yes, he’s a nice guy.” replied Malcolm. He chuckled. “Although I think Ainsley likes him more than I do.” 

“Yes...” said Aziraphale, taking his son’s meaning. “Your mother still isn’t very keen— nor has she warmed to me again, but I’ve got you and Ainsley— and I suppose you can’t have everything!”

“No,” said Malcolm knowingly, pouring the tea he had made and handing it to his father. “You can’t.” 

Aziraphale raised his cup in salute and began to drink.

“Ah,” he said, pausing and standing up. “I’ve something to show you.”

Malcolm smiled, swallowing the tea he was in the middle of sipping.

“A surprise, huh?” 

“Well, not so fancy as all that...” said his father. Aziraphale began to cross the room. He froze. “I...” 

The teacup he held dropped to the floor and shattered, the remaining tea flooding across the floor. 

He collapsed. He gasped and spluttered as he rolled about on the floor, contorting in agony. Malcolm stood and crossed over to him. He leaned over his father, smirking wickedly. 

“Malcolm...?” said Aziraphale weakly. 

Malcolm threw his head back and laughed. It was a short and horrible sadistic laugh, and one that Aziraphale would know anywhere.

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale croaked. “Holy Water!” 

“We’ve learned a lot of tricks from you and your little friend, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, “and it was about time we started utilizing them! At this very moment, Beelzebub is taking care of Crowley.” Aziraphale let out a cry of grief.

“You wicked, you utterly vile, vicious—!“ 

“Don’t waste your breath, it won’t save him.” said Gabriel, unfeeling. “Nor anyone else...” Gabriel smiled indicatively, staring down with Malcolm’s eyes.

“My son!” choked Aziraphale wretchedly. “Where is my son?” 

“Stuffed in a closet wearing my body— we’ll be dealing with him too, and the girl, we just need to figure out how to do it. Maybe dousing them in Holy Water and Hell Fire at the same time? But perhaps those substances would cancel each other out. Oh, and we plan to get rid of the Antichrist as well. Should’ve done it years ago.” 

“What harm have they done? I understand Crowley and myself, but the them! My son and daughter, Adam, they have so much life left to live...” 

“It’s not our fault you decided to tell them the truth! Now that they know they have the power to manipulate the universe they will, just as you and Crowley did, and we can’t have that, Aziraphale. We simply. Can’t. Have it.” 

Just then, the front door of the house could be heard opening. 

“Don’t—! Stay out—!” gasped Aziraphale desperately. 

But Jessica Milton Whitly was not one who took orders. She came around the corner and was just in time to see someone vanish...

“Malcolm? What the— where’d he—?... Martin??” 

Jessica rushed to the figure on the floor that had just gone limp, and knelt down. She shook him. 

“Martin?” 

There was no answer. She was going to feel for a pulse, but then she remembered that sort of thing didn’t really apply to angels. She couldn’t be sure he was dead, but it didn’t look as though anything else was possible. Black blood poured out of his mouth where he had choked on it. Jessica thought he looked older. So much older... His hair had even turned white. 

She heard a thud upstairs and ran to the source. There she saw a stranger, one who was holding a bound and gagged Malcolm. 

“I’ve got to borrow your son... I won’t be bringing him back.” said the stranger cruelly.

“W-who are you?” demanded Jessica.

“I’m the Archangel Gabriel.” came the reply, and he vanished once again. 

Suddenly, everything made more sense. It had all been true. Ainsley and Malcolm hadn’t been duped or brainwashed. For once in his life, Martin Whitly had told the truth— and now Heaven and Hell were out to murder everyone in their way. Martin was dead, Malcolm was taken— she had to warn Ainsley... and Crowley... maybe even Adam Young. But how? She didn’t have the power to materialize wherever she wished like they did, not to mention she had absolutely no idea where anyone was. Still, she had to try. She pulled out her phone and called Ainsley.

“Ainsley? AINSLEY?” Jessica cried desperately as the phone connected.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” asked Ainsley. Jessica sighed in relief.

“It’s the angels, they’ve killed your father and taken your brother. They’ll be looking for you anywhere they can think of. Is Adam with you?”

“What? Y-yes, he is...” 

“Good. Go, hide! Tell no one and don’t leave! Okay?” 

“Y-yeah, Mom...” 

“Good girl. I have to try to find Crowley now, otherwise... Well, never mind.”

“How will you find us when it’s over?” 

“I... I don’t know. I’ll find a way, just wait. You trust me, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” 

Jessica hung up. She called Crowley’s phone.

“This is Anthony J. Crowley—“

“I know it’s you—“

“— you know what to do, do it with style.” Beep!

“Ugh!” Jessica cried. Damn voicemail. “Crowley? Look, if you’re there, if you’re not dead, they’re coming. The angels are coming.” 

Jessica heard the phone crackle into connection. She could hear fighting. Crowley must’ve been able to hit “answer” in the middle of a tussle. They were there. Jessica hung up and called Gil. 

“Jessica?” said Gil.

“Don’t ask me how I know this but there’s a murder about to be committed—“

“Where?” 

Jessica gave the address. “I’ll follow as quickly as I can.” 

“No, Jessica, stay—“

“I’m coming, it’s my fight.”

“Uh...”

“Don’t. Ask. Now.” 

“Okay!” 

The call was ended, and Jessica returned downstairs. She looked at the pitiful thing on the floor.

“Now I forgive him... And this the man that terrified the whole of New York.” 

Gil Arroyo and his team stormed into the apartment of Anthony J. Crowley, guns drawn. 

“NYPD! Drop your weapons, we’re coming in!” shouted Dani. 

“Put up your hands!” shouted JT. 

They turned the corner...

“My God, what is THAT?!” cried Gil in horror.

There, in the middle of the room, was most grotesque, inexplainable, and impossible sight. A figure, neither man nor woman and hardly human, stood with their hands on fire behind a man with red hair, tearing his throat out in one swift burning motion, as if their hands were a razor of flame, and showing no pain. Golden blood, for what else could it be, gushed from the man’s throat in torrents. He choked and gasped horribly, kicking and pulling at his captor with what little strength he still had— and that little strength was soon used. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went limp. If Gil and his team had only looked behind them, they’ve would’ve seen the grim figure of Death there, waiting patiently... The murderer dropped his victim to the floor. 

“Open fire!!” shouted Gil, snapping out of his frozen terror. 

But the perpetrator vanished in an engulfment of flames.

“Sure as I live and breathe, that was a vision of Hell.” said Gil. 

“There’s got to be an actual explanation, right?” said JT in denial.

“Yeah... I don’t know...” said Dani.

“No, no...” said Gil. “That... that can’t be explained.” 

“Well it can, but you’re really not going to like it, old man.” said a familiar voice, albeit with an unfamiliar accent...

Gil whirled around.

“Martin GODDAMN Whitly! I thought you were supposed to be dead!” 

“I was, many many times over.” said Aziraphale. “One attempt just now, in fact, along with that of my friend.” He pointed to the red haired man in the floor.

“Anthony Crowley.” said Gil.

“That’s right.” answered Aziraphale.

“Look... I saw it happen... he’s definitely... I’m really sorry, but he’s gone.” said Gil. 

“So was I.” said Aziraphale with a small smile. “He’ll come around.” 

Jessica came in.

“Jess!” said Gil, rushing to her. “What’s happening?” 

“You tell him, my dear.” said Aziraphale. 

“Don’t call her that.” said Gil menacingly. 

“It’s purely platonic, I call everyone that.” assured Aziraphale.

“Purely platonic?” said Jessica, insulted.

“My dear, you would’ve had my head just hours ago should I have merely indicated having any sort of amorous intent, and now you are offended! Really, my dear.” said Aziraphale.

“Hours ago I still thought you were evil.” said Jessica.

“Does this mean you want me back?” asked Aziraphale playfully. 

“What. Is. Going. On! And where the HELL is Malcolm?” bellowed Gil.

“He’ll be okay— he’s both angel and demon, so if this didn’t kill Crowley and I, nothing can harm the souls of Malcolm or Ainsley.” said Aziraphale.

“What do you mean ‘he’ll be okay’? One of those, those things hasn’t taken him, right? Right??” said Gil.

There was a pause.

“Well?” said Dani.

“Yes. One of... them.” answered Aziraphale.

“You have got to be kidding me.” said JT.

“Ainsley and her... boyfriend, are hiding.” said Jessica. 

“I don’t understand, what are they, and why are they after all of you?” asked Dani. 

“Because...” Aziraphale sighed. “We’re all the same. The same thing. Same type of... being. And we’re not following their rules.” 

“What’s this, some sort of cult? I don’t...?” said Gil, shaking his head. 

“I’ll explain.” said Jessica, beckoning Gil into the other room.

“We’re coming, JT and I.” said Dani firmly. 

“As you wish...” said Jessica.

“I’ll wake Crowley.” said Aziraphale. 

Gil and his officers followed Jessica into the other room. It wasn’t long before they heard a sound, a sound so inhuman, a cry of such horror and bereavement as they’d never heard. They rushed back to where Crowley and Aziraphale were.

“He’s dead!” howled Aziraphale. “They’ve killed him! He didn’t have enough evil left in him to save him this time...” Tears streamed down his face, and he heaved sobs deeper and sadder than any. It was truly grief when an angel cried... “Six thousand years! Six thousand!! And he was the only one who cared... They’ve murdered him, Heaven and Hell both, for being kind.” 

Jessica knelt beside the weeping angel. 

“Martin?” she said. No reply. “Martin?... Aziraphale.”

He at last looked up at her.

“That’s the first time you’ve called me that...” 

“Listen, I can’t imagine how this feels for you, but you know what this means, don’t you? They can hurt Malcolm.” said Jessica. Aziraphale nodded.

“We get Malcolm, and we end this.”


	8. A Kiss Before Dying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Aziraphale and Jessica burst into the secret room in the Whitly basement.

“Mom! Dad!” cried Ainsley. “I hoped you’d figure this out!” 

“They won’t look for us in a place they’d just left, and why would Ainsley want to be in a place of atrocities?” said Adam. He noticed the look on their faces. “What’s happened?” 

“It’s Crowley.” said Aziraphale. “He’s dead. Truly dead. Obliterated.” 

“No!” cried Adam. Aziraphale nodded his head. 

“Dad... I’m so sorry.” said Ainsley. She went to embrace him.

“No, no!” cried Aziraphale. “Not now, I’ll start crying all over again, and we have to save your brother.” 

Ainsley nodded. 

“Where do you think they’ll be?” 

Aziraphale, Jessica, Adam, and Ainsley arrived on the middle-most floor between Heaven and Hell. 

“Well! This is a surprise! Won’t you ever die?” asked Gabriel. He and Beelzebub stood, Holy Water and Hell Fire in hand respectively, beside Malcolm, who was bound to a chair. 

“Release my son and you can have me.” said Aziraphale.

“It would zzseem we can’t kill you, zzso what zzsort of offer iszzzz that?” asked Beelzebub. 

“You can kill me,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley is dead. He didn’t have enough evil in him to become a demon for a second time and I suspect it is the same with me. If I’m wrong, well... torture me for eternity, I don’t care, just let my son go.” 

“Dad, no!” cried Malcolm. 

“I am still your father and I’ll do as I please, now shut up!” barked Aziraphale. Gabriel scoffed. 

“Not enough evil left, huh?” 

“Like I said, eternal damnation is also an option. It would make the very existence of Hastur— I can smell the hate seeping off of him every time we meet. How he would rejoice at the chance to make me scream, to hear my pain echoing off of the walls of Hell forever— he’d get through the paperwork faster while listening to such a fine tune, I’m sure.” said Aziraphale. 

“That doeszzz zzsound... exquiszzzzzite.” moaned Beelzebub. Gabriel raised an eyebrow. 

“As... appetizing, as Beelzebub and Co. may find this offer, it’s hardly any use to me. I release your mongrel pup back into the wild and what? Let him miracle and tempt to his heart’s content? Stop, if we can find the means to try it again, the next Armageddon? No.” 

“Erase his memories of these things. And Jessica and Ainsley’s. Adam’s too. Anyone who knows— Gil Arroyo and his team, the Pulsifers, the Them... They’re unlikely to remember and if they do, wipe their memories again.” said Aziraphale.

“But... then we’ll always see you as a killer.” said Ainsley. 

“It’s the only way. You coped once and you’ll do it again.” answered Aziraphale firmly.

“I... we’ll miss you.” said Jessica.

“I’ll miss you too— but I’m used to that.” said Aziraphale stoically.

“I don’t want you to die.” said Ainsley, sounding something like the little girl who lost her daddy when she was only five.

“It’s me or all of you, in my shoes you’d do the same, and you certainly wouldn’t say my life, of which I’ve had six thousand years, is worth more than your brother’s, or your mother’s, or Adam’s. You three have got just a tiny window to live in— I had plenty of time, I don’t need more, especially not now.” said Aziraphale.

“Not without Crowley.” said Adam. Aziraphale nodded.

“Not without Crowley.” 

Gabriel shrugged.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” said Aziraphale.

“Okay.” said Gabriel firmly. 

“How are you going to do this? I won’t see you cheat him.” said Adam. 

“Won’t you, sad little useless Antichrist with no powers?” taunted Gabriel. Adam growled. Gabriel laughed.

“Still a Great Beast I see, powers or no! Don’t worry, I have a plan. I will let two of you go, and allow Aziraphale to see you exit the building. Then Beelzebub will place the Hell Fire before him. Once he has stepped into it, the other two of you will be set free. As each person exits the building their memories will be erased.”

Adam nodded, concurring that this was, as much as it could be, an acceptable plan. 

“Now we decide who goes first.”

“Ainsley and Mother go.” said Malcolm.

“No! Absolutely not! You go, with your sister.” said Jessica.

“I’m staying, you and Malcolm go.” retorted Ainsley.

“No, you and your mother go, Malcolm and I will stay.” said Adam. 

“Why?” asked Ainsley. Adam didn’t say anything. “Sexist, that’s what that is.” 

“You sound like Pepper.” said Adam with a chuckle.

“Is now really the time?” asked Jessica. 

“All right,” Adam turned to Aziraphale. “You’re the one who’s dying, who do you want to go, then?”

“Our children go, Aziraphale.” said Jessica firmly. Aziraphale nodded. 

“Yes.”

“Okay.” said Adam.

“No!” shouted Ainsley and Malcolm.

“This discussion is over!” said Aziraphale.

“It’s best this way, Ainsley.” assured Adam, kissing her on the cheek. 

Gabriel untied Malcolm. An angel and a demon appeared to escort Malcolm and Ainsley out.

“I love you both very much, never forget that.” said Aziraphale. 

“Dad, I...” said Malcolm, choked up.

“Don’t. It’s all right.” said Aziraphale. 

Soon, Ainsley and Malcolm had exited the building. Only Jessica and Adam remained.

Aziraphale held out his hand. 

“Nice knowing you,” he said.

Crowley took it. 

“Here’s to the next time,” he said. “And... Aziraphale?” 

“Yes.”

“Just remember I’ll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking.” 

“And I’ll know that you, deep down, were just a little bit of a good person.” said Aziraphale.

“What?” said Jessica.

“I was just talking to—“ Aziraphale realized. “Oh. Never mind.”

“To Crowley.” said Adam. “Nice knowing you too.” 

“Martin,” said Jessica urgently.

“Yes?” said Aziraphale.

“I wish I could’ve gotten to know you like this, as you were for 6,000 years. Perhaps if I’d met you this way... things would’ve been different for us.” 

“They wouldn’t have been much better. We would’ve only been friends, if anything.”

“Why is that?”

“Celestial beings that know they are such are asexual, my dear, and even if I should’ve found it in myself to be otherwise, every human I’ve ever met would assure you...”

“What?” asked Jessica, perplexed. Aziraphale chuckled.

“That I was gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide!” 

Jessica laughed.

“I should’ve know we’d never work out, darling! One last thing—“

She grabbed him and kissed him, passionately and desperately. He kissed back with all the more fervor. 

“All right, break it up!” barked Gabriel, tearing Aziraphale away. “Die already!”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. He stepped into the flames...

He screamed and burned, and then he was gone, and only the flames remained.

Suddenly, Ainsley and Malcolm burst into the room, wings spread. 

“How—?!” Gabriel began, but in one swift movement Ainsley had borne down on him and shoved him into the flames. Malcolm tackled Beelzebub, bringing them to the floor.

“We just kept saying things under our breath that would make us remember— the words cut through the moment you made us forget, and it didn’t work.” said Ainsley.

Gabriel hollered as the flames consumed him, yet he didn’t die. Ainsley threw the Holy Water on the burning mass, and it vanished. 

Beelzebub chuckled. 

“Killing an angel... immediate zzstrike.” 

Ainsley was suddenly pulled backward against the wall and through a window by what must have been the force of God. Glass rained down as she tumbled toward the infinite. Screaming as she fell, there was fire and blood and she could see her wings turning black...

Malcolm stared in horror, and in that moment of weakness, Beelzebub shoved him too into the pillar of Hell Fire. 

Malcolm screamed and vanished.

There had been no evil in him. 

Jessica collapsed. 

She had simply dropped dead. Too much horror and pain had happened in that one moment, there was nothing else her soul could do. 

“No,” said Adam. “No! This is not how this ends! This. Is. Not. How. This. Ends.” 

His eyes began to glow red. 

“No! No! No!” 

His voice distorted into hundreds, deep and menacing. Beelzebub shook with fear.

“M-my Lord...” they said fearfully. 

Adam rose into the air, his eyes burning through everything, him a thousand times more terrifying than he had been all those years ago. The Young Beast was now a man, and he was still his father’s son. It has just taken the right thing to make him so.

“I said ... NO.” 

THIS REALLY IS NOT FAIR. said Death, who had been present that whole time, had anyone only bothered to look for Him.

Adam turned his head and focused his red eyes on Death. 

“I’ll make you deal.”

There was a flash of light like the death of sun...

and it was over.


	9. The Very First Day of the Past of Their Lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Days lost, I know not how,

I shall retrieve them now;

Of course, this meant Gabriel would be alive again.

Of course, this meant that Nicholas Endicott and John Watkins would be on Earth again. 

Of course, this meant that Aziraphale would have darkness in him again. 

But it also meant that Aziraphale would be alive, Malcolm would be alive, Crowley would be alive. 

It meant that Ainsley wouldn’t have Fallen. 

It meant that Jessica wouldn’t have given up. 

Time was moving backward, memories becoming dreams...

Something changed, something very very important. It changed Crowley and it changed Aziraphale. They were changed in the one way that could protect them: they became human. 

Martin looked at the figure he currently had tied to a chair. His victim would wake up any second now... There he was.

The man stared at Martin.

“You’ve abducted me.” he said plainly.

“You don’t seem very worried.” said Martin amusedly. 

“I’m not.” replied the man.

“You should be.” said Martin with the sort of menace that was of a more theatrical, foreboding tone than an evil and threatening one. 

“Why?” asked the man. He didn’t ask in the way of someone who truly doesn’t understand. He knew exactly how much trouble he was in. He was having fun...

“Why?” scoffed Martin. “Because I’m the Surgeon, that’s why.”

“I see.” said the man.

“You don’t appear to, Mr— what was your name again? Mr. Crowley. I’m a serial killer. The Surgeon. Always a bit on point, I thought, but... Well, the main thing is, I’m going to kill you.” 

“I understand that.” 

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you? I’ve had people beg for their lives, or tell me about their families— one even asked me to take care of a Siamese cat. But you haven’t even panicked, and you don’t appear to be in shock either.” 

“Specifically a Siamese cat? They didn’t just say their cat? They specifically pointed out that it was a Siamese cat? Odd. Very odd.”

“I... I never thought of that.” said Martin, perplexed. “But again, you’re very distracted for a man who’s about to die. Are you trying not to think about it?”

“No,” said Crowley. “it’s simply that nothing really matters to me.” 

“Did you... did you just quote Queen?” asked Martin.

“I might’ve done.” said Crowley with a wink. “You know, you really should let me go.” 

“Hah, what? Let you go? Why on earth would I do that? It would be very irresponsible of me— I’d being letting myself get caught.”

“I wouldn’t tell.”

“That’s a lie. How could you not? I would let you go, and then I would have no way to stop you. I could never even find you again in such a large city. Perhaps I could if you waited to go to the police, I could research every Crowley in New York, but if you went immediately... well, I’d be done for.” 

Crowley shrugged.

“I have no way of proving to you that I am or am not I’m telling the truth.”

“I really am going to have to kill you.” said Martin. “So will you beg? Will you tell me about your family, or your specifically Siamese cat?”

“I have no family, nor any pets. Not even any friends. You’ve picked a good one this time, Surgeon. You’ve picked one that doesn’t matter, that no one will miss.” said Crowley. “So no. I won’t beg. Did you want me to?” 

“I’m indifferent to the begging.” said Martin. 

“Good.” said Crowley. “It’s very wise of you to be indifferent to it. So, how will you kill me, then? I’ve heard of you, you’re very imaginative, but I don’t think you’d kill outside of your style, which gives you, although hardly, limited options.”

“And what is my style?” 

“A surgeon’s.”

“Well that was obvious.” 

“I mean that you wouldn’t be crude. You won’t cut my throat or put a bullet through my brain. What do you requires skill. It has to. That’s what makes you who you are.” 

“Are you a profiler?” 

“No. Just an understanding mind.” 

“An understanding mind, huh? In my experience, those don’t exist. Especially not in those who have never killed.”

“How do you know I’ve never killed?” asked Crowley, a funny sort of look in his eyes.

“Have you?” asked Martin, surprise and intrigue showing on his face. Crowley smiled a funny sort of smile. It was almost wicked, at yet somehow too vague to be so.

“What do you think happens when we lose time? Are we still ourselves, or do we become someone else? What happens when we dream, and yet we swear it was actually memory?” 

“Are you saying...” said Martin, now very interested. “That you think you killed someone in a fugue state?” 

“If I did, he deserved it.” said Crowley. “And so do I. I got you into this mess, in a way.”

“We’ve never met.” said Martin suspiciously.

“Are you sure? Can you honestly say you’ve never once seen my face anywhere?” 

“I suppose, now that you mention it, I did think you looked a little familiar.”

“Do you believe in past lives?” 

“No.”

“Then how do we know each other?” 

“We must’ve passed each other’s paths, both living in this city.” 

“In a city this size? You yourself pointed out that that would be a rather large coincidence. I don’t believe we live or work anywhere near each other.”

“I suppose both ideas are ludicrous.” 

“Then what is the explanation?” 

“I don’t know, my cryptic friend.”

Martin Whitly woke up. He sat bolt upright, sweat pouring down his brow. He stared into the nighttime blackness of the room. To him, the darkness was a swirling cesspit of forbidden and inexplicable thoughts that festered and grew in his mind, manifesting into absurd dreams.

“Martin? Are you all right?” asked Jessica sleepily, raising her head from the pillow. 

“Yes...” Martin replied. 

“Night terrors?” Jessica asked sympathetically. Martin nodded.

“My poor dear,” said Jessica, drawing him close.

“Jess...”

“Yes?” 

“Do you think...”

“What?”

“Do you think I could’ve ever been... a... well, a bad person?”

“Bad person?”

“Like a killer or something, I don’t know.”

“What a ridiculous question! What ever made you think of that?”

“Just these dreams I have. Sometimes I’m saving the world, but sometimes... sometimes I’m wicked, Jess. Sometimes I do awful, awful things.” 

“They’re just dreams, Martin. Don’t put any store by them.” 

“I wonder though, if I didn’t have dreams to scare me, what sort of person I would be.”

“A normal person, maybe.” Jessica teased. 

“Me? Normal? No, I don’t think I could ever be that.” Martin replied with a chuckle.

“No...” said Jessica. “You’re too stuck up.” 

“Hey!” said Martin in mock defense. Jessica smiled. 

“Try to go back to sleep, you’ve got work tomorrow, remember, Doctor Whitly?” 

“How could I forget?” 

“There’s a patient who needs you urgently, Doctor Whitly.” said a nurse.

“What happened?” asked Martin, following her to the surgery.

“He was shot in the chest— it’s a miracle he’s still alive, albeit barely. I’m shocked he was found in time!” the nurse answered.

“I’m definitely the surgeon for him, then.” replied Martin. He prepared quickly and entered the operating room. He looked at the poor unfortunate on the table.

“Dear God...” he muttered.

There on the operating table was the man he’d seen in his dreams just hours before. 

“What’s wrong? Do you know him?” asked the nurse, handing Martin one of the many surgical instruments that lay on the tray beside them.

“I passed him by in the park only yesterday.” answered Martin. He was a bit shocked at how easily the lie rolled off of his tongue, how calmly he said it, even as with those cold cruel instruments of metal, with ever steady hands, he went into the flesh of the very man he lied about. 

As a surgeon, Martin had learned to be, to some extent, impartial. Not everyone could be saved, one couldn’t get attached to them. But he couldn’t help himself just now. He’d killed this man in his dreams— if this man died here on his table, wasn’t that some sort of proof of being his doom? That he’d somehow purposely taken this man’s life? As these thoughts ran through his brain, he realized that his desperation could compromise his performance. He took a deep breath and focused, and tried very hard not to think of who was beneath his knife.

Martin sighed as he washed the blood from his hands. A police officer was waiting for him just outside the door. Perhaps the officer would be able to reveal to him the nature of his meeting with this mysterious patient of his. He walked out to meet him.

“Hello, I’m Doctor Martin Whitly.” Martin said, putting forth his hand. The officer shook it.

“Hi, I’m Constable Gil Arroyo. Am I correct in believing that you performed surgery on an Anthony Crowley?” 

Martin nodded.

“You are.”

“How is he?” asked Gil. 

“It was a very grave and nearly fatal injury, but he was lucky enough to be under my knife, and it would appear he is a fighter! I expect him to make a full recovery in the next few months, if nothing happens.” answered Martin.

“And what do you think might happen, sir?” asked Gil suspiciously.

“Do you want my theory as to this crime, officer? Because my medical, professional light has been fully shed— what I would give you now would be conjecture, merely based on the sorts of injuries I’ve attended to, and oftentimes their relation to crime. I assume you don’t know who shot him...?”

“No, sir, we don’t know. Anything you have to say may be useful, so sure, let’s hear your theory.” 

“Please, sit down.” said Martin, gesturing to some waiting-room chairs. Gil removed his constable’s cap and sat. Martin sat beside him.

“They say he was found shot in the street, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If it were premeditated murder, it wouldn’t have been in the street, especially since this hardly seems a gang crime.”

“It wasn’t premeditated. Crowley is a foreigner. I doubt he’d have any enemies in a different country, especially since there are no records of him having come here before— he’s from England.” 

“And he wasn’t robbed— the watch I saw on his wrist was certainly of value, any robber would’ve seen that first and taken it, not to mention the distance at which he was shot. So, my guess is wrong place, wrong time. He sees a crime being committed and is shot to silence him. But here’s the question— why not shoot him in the head? Or neck? Or directly in the heart? An immediate kill, or nigh on! But no, it was an easily fatal shot, but not immediate. It would take a few minutes. Not many, mind, but time still! This shooter... He couldn’t watch his victim die.”

“A fledgling killer, you think?”

“I’ve seen many results of New York crime in these halls, officer; I can’t say it wasn’t merely a lowlife trying out his ill-gotten gains for fun, but if we are to err on the side of caution, if we are looking for someone with motive... Perhaps it was a fledgling killer, but whether it was or wasn’t I’m not sure matters. This shot was intended to kill, which means if our shooter finds out that he hasn’t succeeded... he may be back to finish the job, and you and I both know, I’m sure, that hospitals, despite all they stand for, are hardly impenetrable. If our shooters wants in... he’ll find a way.” 

Suddenly, a nurse rushed up to them.

“Doctor, your patient, he appears to be in distress, I thought you’d want to know personally.” 

Martin rose quickly.

“Crowley?” 

The nurse nodded. Martin took off down the hall.

“Hurry, officer! With me!” 

Gil stood and speedily caught up. They rushed into Crowley’s room, where he lay moving restlessly.

“His heart rate has spiked.” said the nurse gravely. “He doesn’t appear to have a fever or anything else that would cause it, however.” he added.

Martin rushed to his patient’s side.

“He’s all right,” he said a moment later. 

“But—“ began the nurse.

“He’s dreaming.” answered Martin. “Night terrors. I suffer from them myself, I’d know this twitching anywhere, my wife has told how I look when I have them a hundred times over.”

“Is this a common malady?” asked Gil.

“Hardly, at least not in those who haven’t suffered traumatic events that cause strong and inescapable memories.” answered Martin.

“So your terrors aren’t caused by trauma?” asked Gil. Martin shook his head.

“But I wonder if our Crowley’s are. Perhaps that’s the answer to his shooting. Maybe it wasn’t random after all.”

“Doctor...” said Gil gravely. “There’s something we need to discuss, especially if you believe he may be in danger, which I agree with you on.” 

“What is it?” asked Martin.

“He travelled alone to this country... with his daughter.”

“A daughter!”

“She says she hasn’t any family but her father, but we’re looking anyway. The girl is with a female officer now, but she needs a place to stay. A foster home will have to be arranged but...” Gil sighed. “Of course it has to be a man with a family whose life now hangs in the balance, and his girl in an unknown country.” 

“How old is she?”

“Only ten.”

“Ten? Poor thing... I’ve a son that age... perhaps... I could call my wife, see if we could take the girl.” said Martin. Gil brightened.

“Would you?“

“Yes, I’ll call her now!” Martin winked and, pulling out his phone, left the room. Minutes later, he returned. 

“Jessica says yes!”

“Wonderful! Come with me to the station, sign some things, and you can take her home to your family.” 

Martin set the ginger-headed girl down in his foyer. 

“Estelle, my dear, this is my son Malcolm, he’s your age! And this is my wife Jessica, she’ll be your mommy while you’re here, if you need anything, just ask her! And this is my daughter Ainsley— she’s quite a bit younger than you, but I’m sure you shall still be able to have fun together! Now, I must hurry back to your daddy, okay? I’m making sure he’s taken good care of.” 

“Yes, thank you.” said the girl.

“Hello, sweetheart!” said Jessica, kneeling and giving the girl hug.

“Hi,” said Estelle Crowley with a small smile.

“Hi... sorry about your dad, but I’m sure my dad will fix him up, it’s what he does best!” said Malcolm, putting out his hand. “Want to see my room?”

“Okay,” said Estelle, taking his hand. 

“Coming, Ainsley?” asked Malcolm, looking at his sister. 

“Yeah!” said Ainsley eagerly.

The children went upstairs. Jessica turned to her husband worriedly.

“What’s wrong, why do you have to go back? Is he so weak?”

“The man himself is doing remarkably well, but the police and I have come to the conclusion that he may be in danger, that the shooter may try again. And it would seem that Crowley suffers from the same night terrors as I do, and should he wake I want to be there— as most terrors are caused by trauma, it’s possible that trauma is linked, somehow part of the reason he was targeted. I think I’m the best person to get the information from him, the police may lack tact. Besides... I feel connected to him, somehow. I can’t explain it, Jess, but... I just feel it’s right for me to sit beside him, especially since we know he is alone here— no one else will.” answered Martin. Jessica nodded.

“Whatever you think is best. You go.” 

“Thank you.” 

Martin kissed his wife and left. Jessica went upstairs and peered into Malcolm’s bedroom. Within, she could see him acting out the Count of Monte Cristo, trying to cheer up Estelle, who sat on his bed watching with an amused smirk that, had Jessica or Martin known Crowley awake, they would have known to be exactly like her father’s. Ainsley sat beside Estelle, giggling and playing with her ginger hair. Jessica smiled. She wished she could make this moment last forever.


	10. While the Patient Slept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

Martin sat beside Anthony Crowley. It had been a long day. It was almost dawn, now. Martin had come into work the previous afternoon, Crowley had come into the ER that night, and now a new day was dawning, one that Martin was sure would prove equally as tiring. But it was worth it. Whatever answers to many a mystery Crowley held would make it worth it. 

Martin waited as the next day’s hours ticked by. He knew Crowley wouldn’t wake for a while, and even if he did he wouldn’t have the strength to speak, but he knew he had to wait, that it had to be him. 

“I know it is possible that you can hear me, Mr. Crowley, and I’m tired of sitting here in silence. However, I can hardly have a conversation with myself, so—“ Martin pulled from his bag beside him a book. A fine, old book.

“I prefer vintage editions.” he said matter-of-ly. “I suppose, as an Englishman especially, you’ve heard these stories a hundred times over, but had felt the urge to reread them myself, so as I have it with me... Well, here go: ‘The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb. Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice, that of Mr. Hatherley’s thumb and that of Colonel Warburton’s madness....”

“I wanted to say l’m sorry.” said Martin at last.

“You... what?” exclaimed Jessica.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done. For killing those people. For how I killed those people, how many I killed, the lives of their families. And more than anything else I’m sorry for how affected you. All of you. I’m so so sorry. And I don’t expect you to believe me. A pathological liar. A villain who shuts off his emotions to enable him to hurt others. Why should you? But I had to say it. I couldn’t go any further without saying it or I wouldn’t go any further at all. I can’t explain it, you’d never believe me, but let’s just say I found something that I lost. I remembered something forgotten and I see clearer now. I cannot tell you that I didn’t enjoy the heinous crimes I committed, because that would be a lie. But I can tell you that I regret committing them because that is true. And I thought maybe... maybe knowing I was sorry would help you move on from that. From me. I know you’ve been trying to but there’s really no way to do that without my cooperation, and now I’m cooperating.”

“What are you saying?” asked Ainsley. 

“After tonight, you’re never seeing me again. I’m leaving your lives. Forever.”

“You think we’d just let you go? Let a murderer free?” asked Jessica.

“Well, at the moment, you don’t have much of a choice.” said Crowley. 

“That’s beside the point.” said Martin gently. 

“You’re going to go out and kill people.” said Ainsley.

“I won’t.” said Martin. “I swear it.” 

“As if that means anything.” scoffed Jessica.

“Actually... I think it does.” said Malcolm. 

“What?” said his mother.

“It does mean something.” Malcolm approaches his father. “Your hands. You’ve had them clasped behind your back the entire time you’ve been here. You haven’t moved them even once. Why?” 

Martin shrugged. 

“I’m comfortable.”

“No, you’re not. You keeping looking back at Crowley, for instruction, or maybe even assurance. You’re nervous. Despite the fact that you have nothing to fear, because the phones are down and the gun won’t fire, you’re still nervous. For once in your life, you don’t feel in control. Why would that be? It keeps coming back... to the hands. Your hands...” Malcolm reached out and took his father’s hands. Martin drew a sharp breath, as if he were being stabbed. 

“What?” said Jessica. A strange look had crossed her son’s face.

“His hands... they’re shaking... like mine.” said Malcolm softly. “Except,”

“What?” said Ainsley.

“They won’t stop.” said Malcolm. “What have you done?” 

“My life was dedicated to the art of surgery, and I slandered it. So, I destroyed the tools of my trade.” said Martin shakily. 

“He’ll never hold a syringe or a scalpel again.” said Crowley calmly. Almost apathetically, as if it didn’t matter at all. And Malcolm could read it.

“He did this because of you. Somehow, you made him do it.” The anger seeped off of Malcolm.

“So you do care about your old man after all, somewhere in there...” said Martin.

“Nonsense! He’s just worried there’s another psycho on the loose! Which it’s clear there is.” said Jessica! 

“You must have helped him, you must have given him the tools to do it.” said Malcolm.

“Malcolm, my actions were my own, leave Crowley out of this.” said Martin.

“If you’ve mutilated yourself in hopes of being forgiven, it won’t work.” said Jessica.

“I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. Unforgivable, that’s what I am. I was a good man once, but that was a long time ago.” said Martin. “I—“

“Doctor! Doctor! Wake up, he’s dreaming again, but this looks worse!” Gil Arroyo, who had watched over Crowley so Martin could get some rest, shook the surgeon awake. Martin woke from his terror and saw his patient turning restlessly in his bed, consumed in another of his own, one that seemed far more vicious than the other.

Suddenly, Crowley’s eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright in terror. His pain overtook him, however.

“Aah!!” 

His hand flew to his chest, his face contorted in pain. 

“Mr. Crowley!” said Martin, gently pushing Crowley back against the pillows. “It’s all right!” 

Crowley stared at him in bewilderment. 

“You?” 

“What is it?” asked Martin worriedly.

“I swear I... You were reading?” Crowley asked. Martin nodded and sat back down.

“I was.” 

“I could see you, though I swear I never opened my eyes. I saw you differently, but it was you. You, but you wore spectacles, and your hair was white. Your clothes were well-worn and from the Victorian era. You had a little gold pocket watch... You must think I’m crazy.” 

“I don’t. I saw you too, before you ever landed on my operating table.” 

“On your...” 

Sudden realization showed dawning in Crowley’s eyes, and he grew frantic.

“My daughter! My girl! I have a child! She—“

“Your girl Estelle is safe with my wife and children, Mr. Crowley. She isn’t in any danger from whoever did this to you.” assured Martin. Crowley sighed in relief. 

“That’s very good of you, doctor. It’s above and beyond.” 

“I hated to see her bungled through the police or foster care, and neither does my officer friend, here. I have a son your daughter’s age and a daughter a few years younger, it seemed to make sense to take her in.” said Martin with a smile.

“Can I see her?” asked Crowley. Martin looked at him and sighed. 

“Soon. Rest now, Mr. Crowley. You’ll exhaust yourself talking and you’re white as a sheet.” 

Crowley smiled weakly and nodded. He closed his eyes.

“Doctor?” he said.

“Yes?” asked Martin. 

“You can drop the ‘Mister’.”

It was a while later, Gil Arroyo and Martin spoke about the crime with a better-rested Crowley. 

“Can you tell me what you remember?” asked the constable. Crowley nodded. 

“It was evening, and my girl and I were settling in our hotel. I went out to get the rest of our luggage, but the parking was full so I’d had to park down the way. However, not knowing the place, I got lost and wandered down the wrong street, into a slum. Now just because it was a filthy alley didn’t mean there weren’t any lights, and I could see a man forcing a bound and probably drugged figure, a woman, into a car. I went for my mobile but remembered it wouldn’t work here in America. He saw me... he pulled a gun and shot.”

“Do you remember his face?” asked Gil.

“Yes, and not only that: I got his license plate.” Crowley gave the number, and Gil wrote it down.

“Good.” said Gil, rising to leave. “We’ll find the owner, see if he’s our man.” 

Some time later, Gil returned. He looked shaken to the core. Martin rose quickly and rushed to him.

“Constable, what is it? What’s wrong? Here, sit.”

Gil sunk into the chair Martin offered. 

“We ran the plate... found the owner... He said he’d brought it to the junkyard two weeks back. The junkyard workers confirmed it his story. However, it would seem that very car was there and had been crushed, but not one worker could account for doing it. So we started pulling apart some of the wreckage, trying to find it... There were bodies. Some years old, some very recent.” 

“A serial killer.” said Martin solemnly. 

“The woman?” asked Crowley anxiously.

“None as new as that.” said Gil. “But our pathologist says that they died... they were alive when they were crushed, so the woman you saw, if this is the same perpetrator, is still alive somewhere, for the time being.” 

“Mustn’t she be somewhere in the junkyard property? If this killer bothers to get a car that isn’t his own to do the job, why would he crush it before he’s finished?” asked Martin. Gil shrugged.

“Cover his tracks?” 

“But then he’ll have stolen another junkyard car to finish.” said Martin. 

“That’s hardly a lead— so many cars go through that place that unless we can match it with the face that brought it or something else distinct, the workers wouldn’t notice if, as they didn’t before, a car went missing.” said Gil. 

“And I suppose the odds of a stake out yielding anything are small— he’ll probably know you’ve found his work.” said Crowley. 

“You’re right, but we’ll try it anyway.” said Gil. 

“If this is the same man, he’ll know it’s Crowley that put you onto him.” said Martin worriedly. 

“You think he’ll try to find me and silence me.” said Crowley. 

“Even if only out of vengeance.” replied Martin. 

“But I know his face, he’ll know I know his face, so isn’t that all the more dangerous, trying to get to me?” asked Crowley. 

“Only you know exactly what he looks like. The description we have to go on is that of an average man, hundreds like him walking through this hospital every day. It would be impossible for us to flag every man of his description that we would see here or anywhere else. He’d know that.” said Gil. 

“Depending on how much credit you give him, and if this is the same man then I give him a lot of credit for killing undetected for years, he’d know you’d reached this conclusion and that presumably you’d put a guard on my door.” said Crowley. 

“It would appear we’ve reached a mental checkmate!” said Martin with a wry chuckle.

“Unless...” began Crowley thoughtfully.

“What?” asked Gil eagerly. 

“We get a door guard... who has a terribly hard time staying awake on night shift.” finished Crowley with a satisfied smirk. 

“You mean...” began Gil.

“Trap him.” said Martin. 

“We have to get him to confess in my presence, we can’t record him or it’s entrapment.” said Gil warily. 

“There’s both a bathroom and a small closet in this room, either of which I’m sure you’re capable of hiding in.” replied Crowley.

“I’ll stay too.” said Martin. 

“It may be dangerous.” warned Gil. “He’ll come armed unless he plans on asphyxiating Crowley, which he may.” 

“You think I’d let my patient endanger himself and not stay by his side?? You’re greatly mistaken! No, I’m staying, and that’s final.” said Martin firmly.

A police guard had been appointed to Crowley’s door with the sole purpose to act as though he was asleep. Slumped in his chair, eyes closed, he was wondering, after a night or two, whether this odd job would ever yield anything. Just as he was thinking this, he felt vaguely aware of the presence of another person. The door beside him clicked open quietly, and was momentarily shut again with just as much care. He listened... 

Crowley heard someone enter the room. He waited until the footsteps had stopped at his beside. He opened his eyes. 

“Don’t scream, don’t try anything.” said his shooter menacingly. 

“Why? You’ve come to kill me, haven’t you?” asked Crowley. The man pulled a gun and cocked it.

“You make a sound, and I’ll not only kill you but as many people as I have bullets for.”

“Fair enough.” said Crowley. He paused. “A gun. Bit redundant, ay?” 

“I don’t intend to use it to kill you unless you make a ruckus. It’s too loud, for one. What do you take me for, an idiot? Everyone would hear the gunshot, especially that cop outside your door.” said the man. 

“How, then?” asked Crowley. His shooter glanced at the many wirings around him.

“Now, I’m no doctor, but I’d imagine if I fiddle with any of these things enough, something will kill you. Upping your morphine, perhaps? That’s peaceful, anyway. I don’t care to have you die brutally, you’re just a casualty, you just got in the way of my work. Not that I’m adverse to killing you brutally, you understand, there’s just no need, and of course, like a gunshot, it would be too loud.” 

“If I’m going to die, I’d at least like to know why. What is this work of yours?” said Crowley. The man sat down at the bedside.

“I get rid of the trash of the Earth.” 

“People?” asked Crowley.

“People who do nothing but corrupt, wallow in their filth.” 

“That woman I saw you putting in that car...”

“A drug addict.”

“You’ve killed her?” 

“Not yet. They’re made to face their sins first.” 

“How?” asked Crowley.

The man leaned forward. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” 

“I’m about to die, nothing else can hurt me.” said Crowley. The man shrugged.

“Suit yourself. But first,”

He pushed a few buttons, upping Crowley’s morphine dosage. 

“Tick tock!” the man said wickedly. “So I’ll tell you. That junkyard... I use it for whatever I want and no one notices. I have a bunker underground there. I put the... people, though they’re barely that, there, and let them reflect. They fast, they give everything to thought.”

“You starve them? Deprive them of sustenance and then crush them to pieces while they’re still alive...”

“It’s only what they had coming to them.” the man growled. 

“And you, their killer—“

“Redeemer.” 

“— who are you?” 

“Does is matter who I am?”

“I’d like to know the hand I die by.” said Crowley. 

“My name is John Watkins.” the man said at last.

“John Watkins, you’re under arrest for murder and attempted murder. Drop your weapon!” said Gil, appearing from the bathroom, gun drawn.

Watkins made to shoot, but Gil was quicker and shot the gun from Watkins’ hand. 

“Agh!” cried Watkins in pain and frustration. Gil approached, his gun still pointed.

“Doctor, take a look at this man’s hand, would you? I can’t bring him to the station in pieces.” 

Martin stepped out of the closet.

“Of course, officer.” 

Watkins reluctantly let Martin look at his hand.

“The bullet only grazed it. I’ll just dress it, and you can clasp his hands behind him and get him out of here! I think the bullet ended up there,” said Martin, gesturing to a hole in the window framing. 

He bound Watkins’ hand, and Gil cuffed the murderer’s hands behind his back. “Thanks,” said Gil, nodding to Crowley.

But Crowley didn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ, the morphine!” cried Martin, rushing to Crowley’s side. He quickly stopped the morphine flow and then turned to Gil. 

“You’re quicker than an emergency button. You run out of here as fast as you can and get a nurse to bring me naloxone.”

“But Watkins—“ Gil began. Martin picked up Watkins’ gun and focused it on its owner.

“I have him. Hurry!!” 

Gil left and quickly carried out Martin’s instructions. Upon his return, Martin quickly administered the drug to Crowley, and then collapsed into the bedside chair. 

“God damn, that was close, you son of a bitch!” the doctor growled at Watkins. 

“If only you’d forgotten for a moment longer.” said Watkins ruefully. 

“Be thankful he didn’t or you’d be down for another murder.” said Gil. “Although I suspect, depending on how many more bodies we find in that junkyard, and if the girl you’ve so recently taken dies, that you’re already looking at the death penalty.” 

The officer marched Watkins out. 

Martin looked over at the unconscious Crowley. He sighed. 

“Hopefully that’s the last of that, my friend. You did well.” 

A few weeks later, Crowley crossed the threshold of the Whitly house.

“Daddy!!!” cried Estelle, flying into his arms. 

“My girl, my girl, I’ve missed you so much!” said Crowley, hugging her tightly. Jessica appeared, smiling.

“Mr. Crowley! It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last! Dinner is on the table!”

The Crowleys and the Whitlys sat down to eat.

“So, Anthony,” said Martin. “We finally get to talk like normal people, with this whole criminal business out of the way.”

“Indeed” said Crowley, raising his glass.

“What brings you to America, Mr. Crowley?” asked Jessica. 

“We’re running away.” answered Crowley, smiling at his daughter. 

“Running away?” laughed Jessica. “What from?” 

“Mummy.” answered Estelle. 

“From your mother?” asked Jessica in disbelief.

“From thinking about her.” Crowley. “She died.” 

“Oh... oh, I’m so sorry.” said Jessica.

“That’s all right, it was a long time ago. You don’t really remember it, do you, Estelle? You were just a baby. But sometimes I remember, and yelling at plants won’t fix everything— good for rage, less good for grief— so sometimes... we run.” said Crowley.

“I like the running!” said Estelle. 

“That’s my girl!” said Crowley proudly. “The world is our oyster.” 

“I really wish it wasn’t considered an oyster. I don’t like oysters.” said Estelle, wrinkling up her nose.

“Me neither,” said Malcolm.

“I’d like the world to be our not-an-oyster as well, it simply hasn’t happened yet. Maybe when Ainsley is older.” said Martin. 

“I’m old enough!” piped Ainsley. 

“Maybe, but I don’t think you’ll remember much if we travel the world now, my dear.” Martin answered.

“Awww.” said Ainsley disappointedly.

“Your wife,” said Jessica, “what was her name?”

“Joan— although we didn’t make it to getting married.” answered Crowley with a soft smile. 

There was a pause.

“Why do you shout at plants?” asked Malcolm. “There’s lots of things to shout at, why plants?”

“Because, my clever young friend, it makes them grow better! That’s why I have the money to run away— the plants I grow are the best their are, and therefore very easy to make money from.” explained Crowley.

“Ooo, I’ll have to try that!” said Malcolm. 

“So you run a plant nursery?” asked Jessica.

“That’s correct.” answered Crowley. “My plants are the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London— but also the most terrified.” 

Martin had the strangest feeling he’d heard Crowley say that before...

“You should start your traveling by visiting us,” continued Crowley. “You’ll always be welcome in London.” 


	11. The Remorseful Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ. I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.

| 

Malcolm Whitly, now thirty years old, walked into Police Lieutenant Gil Arroyo’s office, ready for another day of work as a criminal profiler for the NYPD.

“What’ve we got, Gil?” 

“A very interesting person. A woman, Eve Blanchard, formerly Sanders, who is looking for her sister. They grew up in the Carolinas, but her older sister moved to New York, and sent letters to keep communication. However, the letters stopped. Blanchard was hardly more than a kid at the time— that was ten years ago— so since Blanchard had no other relatives, a Missing Persons report was never filed.” said Gil.

“You’ve run a trace on the sister?”

“Yes, no results. She is missing.” 

“Has Mrs. Blanchard brought the letters?” 

“Yes— but it’s ‘Miss’.”

“Great! Right, thanks.” 

And Malcolm walked into the interview room. 

Malcolm was in his apartment. He flung his files on the Sanders case down frustratedly. Not a single lead. Not one! He felt sure foul play had entered into the disappearance of Sophie Sanders, but whoever was responsible was a master at covering their tracks. Gil had already had to drop the case— there was so only long he was allowed to work on an unyielding case,Malcolm had been at it for months. 

“It’s all right,” said Eve, coming and standing beside him. “Perhaps it was too much to hope for.” 

“I just... I wanted to help! To put this mess in the past so it wouldn’t always be hanging over you. Over us.” said Malcolm. 

“Us? I thought you said there was no us, that you had a girlfriend. That we could only be friends.” said Eve. 

“Friends are still an ‘us’.” 

“A different sort of ‘us’. We could be something, Malcolm.”

“We are something.”

“Something more.” 

“More doesn’t mean better.” 

“No, not necessarily, but you never know if you don’t try.” 

“I’ve spoken to Anthony, he and Estelle are coming to visit.” said Martin, as the Whitly family enjoyed dinner together

“How lovely! When?” asked Jessica.

“Next month!” replied Martin cheerfully. 

“Well, that’s great!” said Ainsley. “Dad gets to see his best friend, and Malcolm gets to see his girlfriend.” 

“‘Sort of’,” said Malcolm.

“His ‘sort of’ girlfriend.” said Ainsley with a smirk. 

“How can she be your ‘sort of’ girlfriend when you’ve dated her every time you saw each other for a decade?” asked Jessica. 

“She lives there, I live here— neither of us expect any particular loyalty. That would be like asking Dad not to have any friends but Anthony, and vice versus.” said Malcolm. 

Martin shrugged, a large piece of bread in his mouth.

Jessica sighed.

“Well, I do wish you wouldn’t string the girl along, but I suppose if she’s happy and you’re happy then— it doesn’t matter.” 

Malcolm’s phone buzzed. He looked— his mother was calling. He ignored it. He was working on the Sanders case— whatever his mother had to say, it wasn’t important. Malcolm threw his phone aside and ignored its incessant quaking. 

About an hour later, his doorbell rang. He sighed. He got up and opened the door.

“Hi,” said an elegant voice. 

“Estelle!” said Malcolm in surprise. He shook his head and chuckled. “Tonight is the night you were supposed to get in, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeeeep.” said Estelle.

“I’m sorry, I er, totally forgot. Work.” 

“Still ignoring everyone’s phone calls, I see.”

“Well... I do get a lot of them.” 

“Hmm.” 

Estelle stepped in. 

“Same as it was.”

Malcolm chuckled.

“And has your apartment changed so much?”

“No,” said Estelle with a grin. 

“Well then, you can’t tease me, can you?”

“Of course I can!” 

“How long has it been? Six months since I saw you last in person? You don’t look any older.” 

“Did you expect me to?”

“We’ve hit thirty, my dear— and you can’t look twenty forever!” 

“Can’t I? Can’t you? You seem a little older... but it’s a different kind of old. It seems less like you’ve aged in the face, and more like you’ve aged up here.” said Estelle, tapping her head. Malcolm smirked.

“Maybe I have. The cases can be...”

“Disquieting?” 

“Yeah, you could call them that.”

Malcolm offered Estelle a seat on the couch.

“Drink?” 

“Please,” answered Estelle, sitting. Malcolm poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to her.

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape— our fathers’ favorite.” she said, raising the glass.

“Our fathers’ favorite... and ours.” said Malcolm, raising his.

“If the cases bother you, why do it? You don’t have a family to look after, and your mother is as rich as the devil!” said Estelle.

“Why do you work? Something to do.” replied Malcolm. 

“My legacy is to run a bookshop where I don’t sell anything, and to shout at some plants. It’s hardly strenuous.” 

“Now just because it’s strenuous doesn’t mean I don’t love my job. It’s really quite fascinating— plants and a bookshop can’t be that, can it?” 

“On the contrary, I, unlike you, Malcolm Whitly, have not lost my love of books, and there for find fascinating things all of the time, especially with the amount of books in my shop— it would take six thousand years to read all of them.” 

“Oh? And what fascinating thing have you found recently that could compare to my profiling?” asked Malcolm, grinning wickedly. Estelle shook her ginger locks back gracefully. 

“How clear, how lovely bright,  
How beautiful to sight  
Those beams of morning play;  
How heaven laughs out with glee  
Where, like a bird set free,  
Up from the eastern sea  
Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,

No more shall yield to wrong,

Shall squander life no more;

Days lost, I know not how,

I shall retrieve them now;

Now I shall keep the vow

I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies

How heavily it dies

Into the west away;

Past touch and sight and sound

Not further to be found,

How hopeless under ground

Falls the remorseful day.”

And there was silence. Estelle smiled triumphantly, and sipped from her glass.

“I’ve... never heard that poem.” Malcolm said at last.

“A. E. Housman. He’s good.” said Estelle. 

“That was... fascinating.”

“So I told you.” 

“Will you say it again so I can write it down?”

“You can look it up on the Web, silly!”

“But if you say it so I can write it, I get to hear you say it again.”

“Malcolm, you really are a soppy romantic... Okay,”

“Good!” Malcolm picked up a notebook and pen. “Ready.”

“How clear, how lovely bright....” 

The early morning sunlight broke through Malcolm’s window. He opened his eyes and watched the sun rise. He smiled. He put his arm around Estelle, who lay beside him.

“How clear, how lovely bright, how beautiful to sight, those beams of morning play;  
How heaven laughs out with glee, where, like a bird set free, up from the eastern sea, soars the delightful day.”

“You say it very nicely, Malcolm.” Estelle said sleepily. 

“Thank you,” he replied, giving her a kiss. “What should we do today?”

“Go back to sleeeeeeep.” answered Estelle with a yawn. 

“You go ahead, I’m going to get up.”

“Mmm.” 

Malcolm slipped out of bed and put the bed clothes back over Estelle. He went into the kitchen and made some coffee. After it had brewed, he made himself up a cup and sat on couch. He picked up the previous day’s newspaper, which he bought for work purposes, and turned to the crossword. He looked at the first clue.

“My whole life's effort has revolved around Eve.” he muttered. 

Eve! He’d been so entranced, so happy to see Estelle that he’d forgotten his promise to Eve that he’d try to make their romantic relationship work. He looked over to his bed with guilt and regret— what a mess he was making. Remorseful day indeed. 

Later that day, he told her. He told Estelle about Eve. 

“We can’t do this forever, and if we settled down like normal people, don’t you think we’d get bored?” he said. 

“You don’t think I’m the settling down type.” said Estelle with a small smile.

“Well are you?” 

“I guess that depends.”

“Well if got together permanently, one of us would have to leave our work, our lives, our countries. It’s been great but... I think we’ll be just as good as friends. Like we were as kids.” said Malcolm earnestly. Estelle sighed.

“I suppose you’re right, Malcolm. If she’s the one you want, you go get her. If it doesn’t work out... I’ll be around... I guess I should go stay at your parents’ place.” She gave Malcolm a kiss on the cheek. She spotted the crossword— Malcolm hadn’t gotten that first question. She leaned over, picked up a pen, and wrote something in. Then she smiled and left. Malcolm looked at the answer.

“Endeavour."

|   
  
---|---|---


	12. The Endeavour

It had been a few months since Estelle and Crowley had gone home. Malcolm was walking down the street toward the NYPD Headquarters.

“Malcolm? Malcolm Whitly!” called a voice. Malcolm turned. A man with golden hair and blue eyes rushed up to him.

“It is you, I thought so! Good, I’ve been looking for you.” 

“Sorry, do I know you?” asked Malcolm. 

“You will.” replied Adam Young. 

“I... died.” said Malcolm, “We all died...” 

Adam nodded. 

“But you said you’d make a deal with Death— what deal?” asked Malcolm. 

“Well, we’d all cheated Him quite a lot, but at this point he sort of admires us for it. However, he stills wants to do his job. I made Aziraphale and Crowley human to protect them. My deal with Death is that in exchange for making them mortal, for getting a death from every one of us, he will refuse to work for Gabriel and Beelzebub. If they try to obliterate us, he won’t let them. And if we’re unhappy in wherever we end up, he’ll take us some else. Somewhere I made.” explained Adam. 

“You made an Afterlife? Your own?”

“Sure I did! I can’t make it an official deal, I can’t make it for everyone, but for us and those we wish to include within reason... It’s our own little world, our own little Tarfield or Alpha Centauri. It’s up to you whether or not you tell Aziraphale and Crowley about our past lives. If they’re happy, I think perhaps it’s better not to— they may be human, but they weren’t always, which means you and your sister are still partly celestial. You still have powers if you want them, and you’ll want them, because sooner or later Heaven and Hell will try to end the world again and the world will need saving, but I don’t think we should put Aziraphale and Crowley through all that worry again.”

“No... they’ve had enough stress. They deserve to be happy, live the quiet life.” 

“We should tell Ainsley.”

“No ulterior motives there...”

“Hey!” 

“I’m just teasing!... I keep feeling like I’m forgetting something... oh no.”

“What?” 

“My Dad... before... He said he killed someone. A dangerous person. A person named Nicholas Endicott.”

“He runs a pharmaceutical business,” said Ainsley. “But that’s not all. I get the impression, although he’s been very careful to make it hard to trace, that he runs a lot of other things. Most of New York, possibly.” 

“Nicholas Endicott, the most powerful man in New York State. Great. Just what I needed.” groaned Malcolm.

“You’re welcome.” said Ainsley, annoyed at her brother’s lack of manners.

“Right, thanks for finding out all of this for us.” said Malcolm. 

“I had fun,” smirked Ainsley.

“Good.” said Adam. 

Ainsley held his gaze.

“All right, you can go break the sexual tension.” said Malcolm, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll figure out how to bring down the greatest criminal since Jack the Ripper by myself.” 

“Just because we look at each other doesn’t mean we’re going to ditch you.” said Ainsley, offended.

“Do you have any ideas?” asked Adam. “Because we need to figure out how we get to him to get information on him to prove he’s a criminal to put him in jail.”

“Yeah, I have an idea.” Malcolm answered. “Ainsley, do you know where Endicott works and lives, personally?” 

“Sure, why?”

Malcolm went from place to place, every office, home, vacation house, every place owned by Nicholas Endicott. Malcolm had gotten back into the groove of materializing in and out of places, of erasing his face from people’s memories, of snapping his fingers and sending them into sleep. He was going to find dirt on Nicholas Endicott, wherever the man hid it, Malcolm was going to find it, no matter how long it took.

And finally, he did. 

It was in a small safe that was inside a locked desk drawer, and the “it” was files. Lots of them. Files on every crooked deal Endicott ever made, files on every person he killed and those he tried to.

And those he tried to. 

There in the list of the ones that got away was a name Malcolm would know anywhere.

It was Sophie Sanders.

Malcolm’s hands trembled and his mind began racing like a train ready to fly off it’s tracks: Endicott was the man behind Sophie’s disappearance AND YET she wasn’t dead, and even Endicott couldn’t find her, so how would Malcolm?

He tried to convince himself that now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to bring these files to Gil— every last one. 

Martin Whitly lay asleep. All day he had been thinking how proud he had been of his son for bringing down this criminal, Nicholas Endicott. The name sounded so familiar...

“Gas, poison, bullets,” said Martin, laughing in disgust, “I always did believe that, in the end, you’d turn out to be just an ordinary cutthroat.”

“And you’re not?” asked Endicott with amusement.

“I’m neither ordinary, nor a cutthroat— my killings were never vulgar affairs, they were art.” 

“And what idea do you have that’s so much more imaginative?” 

“Well, even off hand...” An evil grin crossed Martin’s face. “Do you know that a man dies when he loses five pints of blood? Of course you do.” He paused. “I would strap you to an operating table, inject a needle into your veins and slowly draw off your life blood. You would be conscious, aware of every exquisite detail. You’d being watching yourself die, scientifically. You’d be in full possession of your faculties— until you grew weak, or went into circulatory shock, that is. Yes, even unto the end, I will have proved to be the more resourceful man.”

“You mean the man who got caught.” said Endicott suavely.

“I mean the man who wasn’t too cowardly to do his own work.” said Martin sharply. Endicott flushed with anger. Then he smiled. 

“Too intelligent,” he corrected. “And, again, you have underestimated me. Your narcissism is your greatest flaw.”

“And you, yours.” 

“It would appear not. Martin, we could’ve been friends.... Such a pity. You see, for all my loyal workers, there isn’t always sufficient care for those of them who suffer at the hands of people like your son. So, I have a fully equipped hospital here in this very building, my stronghold. You may be the Surgeon to crown all surgeons, but my workers and I are not wholly devoid of medical knowledge ourselves... Besides, you describe everything in such USEFUL detail, Martin. Very, very useful.” 

Two of Endicott’s men appeared, and took hold of Martin.

“There’s no escape, my good doctor.” 

Endicott rose and opened the door to the adjoining room. Martin could see the hospital within. Moments later, he was in the exact situation which he had fantasized about. 

“You’re very calm for a man who’s about to die,” said Endicott, leaning over him in a long white doctor’s coat. “You didn’t even try to bite one of my men.” 

“As you said, there is no escape. I was calm the night I was arrested too. I can lose my temper, but that’s generally when I’m struggling with emotions. I try to maintain a certain level of decorum in every situation.” replied Martin.

“You won’t ever rage, rage against the fading of the light?” asked Endicott.

“Dying,” corrected Martin, still the bibliophile. “And no. I’ve never raged against death. I’ve only manipulated it.” He looked over at the tube carrying his blood away from him...

“Frightened?” asked Endicott.

“Terrified.” said Martin with a wicked grin. Endicott laughed and shook his head. 

“So cheerful, such a morbid sense of humor.”

“Oh, always,” said Martin. 

“Drop by drop, Martin, drop by drop.” Endicott taunted.

“Closer and closer to the end, Martin. Every moment a few more drops leave your desecrated body. And as you said, you wise doctor, you can feel me, you’re conscious. Conscious of me, of my triumph, until the very end...” 

“Why did you call me here?” asked Malcolm, staring down Nicholas Endicott.

“I wanted to show you my cell— nice, isn’t it?” asked the villain. Malcolm looked around. This had been his father’s cell, once, though the same man’s money had bought it. However, it looked different. For all his faults in that previous life, Martin Whitly had still had enough Principality Aziraphale in him to have roughly the same style cell as he had bookshop. Endicott was a different sort of man. Martin’s cell had been posh, after a fashion, but still rather threadbare in ways; a room of books and Persian rugs, but little else. Endicott, on the other hand, had every expensive and stylish thing he could get away with, comforts large and small. He was never a man of books— only ever power and money. He would’ve had his chains made of gold, had he been allowed. 

“It’s not my style.” replied Malcolm. “Although is does show what money can buy, especially since you are in it— you pretended to beg for your life when in truth you just lined many pockets.” 

“I really didn’t want to go to the electric chair.” replied Endicott. “I’m terrified of dying.”

“Something tells me that you’re being sarcastic.” 

“Me? Never! I really am terrified, which is why it’s such a pity that my money will be wasted.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s unfortunate because you’re going to murder me.” 

“Hah, no, I’m not.” 

“Oh but you are. See, I have no idea how you came by the information you came by. It’s impossible. I am indescribably careful with my welfare, and yet someone you managed to take everything I ever tried to hide and show it the the Chief of Police! You’ve damned me, so I’d like to damn you in return.” Endicott pulled a knife from inside his pant leg. “Ceramic. Undetected by those foolish machines that only search for metal. I had a friend bring it some days ago. But that’s the lie— you brought it, and now that we’re alone, you’re going to stab me. You’ll be sent down for murder... And you’ll know how I feel.”

“You can’t make me.” said Malcolm.

“I don’t have to. See, you wouldn’t leave fingerprints because you’re wearing gloves.”

“I’m not.”

“No, but no one would notice if you had a pair in your pocket, so as long as my fingerprints aren’t around, yours don’t have to be either— which is why I’m holding this stupid thing with my shirt around it instead of just my hand.”

“You’re going to— no!” 

Endicott pushed the knife deep into his stomach. Malcolm wasn’t going to wait for him to die.

“Stupid man.” he said. He snapped his fingers. No one would remember he’d been there. He materialized back into his apartment, and smiled softly at the idea that Endicott’s last thought was going to be both confusion and clarity in one. But then the happy thought faded. Malcolm realized how he’d held no sympathy, how he’d given Endicott no comfort. He knew Endicott didn’t deserve to be saved, and Malcolm had been trying not to get framed, yet he felt like he’d acted in a way he never would have before.

Adam had told him how Lord Beelzebub had so easily killed him because he had had no evil in him. Malcolm felt like that might be changing... At least he’d be harder to kill.

That night, as Malcolm lay sleeping, something appeared in his room. It was something that was never supposed to exist, but it did. It was the stuff of nightmare, of the things that threaten and terrify children from behind the shield of darkness, and now it stood over Malcolm Whitly. 

It was going to kill him. It didn’t matter where he went after he died— he’d be made to suffer in either place. It was going to stab him right in that stupid heart of his, right in the organ symbolic of love, of compassion for other people. Kindness led Malcolm Whitly here, kindness for strangers and not being able to mind his goddamn business. That, and a sick amount of luck. 

It smirked— or at least as much as it could in the form it had been given that night. 

It struck Malcolm. It struck him with it’s phantom knife. Malcolm woke and screamed, first from the pain and then in horror. The figure smiled and vanished. Malcolm knew that if he died, it was over, he belonged to Death, that was the deal. He did the last think he could think of, all of it happening in seconds. Probably about three of them. And what he did was vanish too. He materialized on the floor just inside the entrance of the ER. No one knew how he got there, he must’ve been stabbed just outside the door— you would think anyone who wanted to kill someone wouldn’t do it outside of a hospital, but then, there are some rather stupid criminals... 

“We had to tell Aziraphale he was Aziraphale. The same goes for Crowley. I didn’t think it was right to cover this with unconvincing lies.” said Adam. 

It was several weeks after Malcolm had been stabbed in the heart, and he was finally awake.

“And Estelle?”

“Ainsley had already told her— no word from either of your lovely ladies, I’m afraid, so there’s no way of knowing if they ever saw the texts and calls about your stabbing. I’m not sure what Estelle’s issue is, but at least we know Eve is ignoring you for the noble cause of finding her sister. You were lucky— your dad explained to me how there’s that ONE tiny spot in your heart where you can be stabbed and live. Fascinating... You’re sure it was Nicholas Endicott who stabbed you?”

“Positive. H&H must’ve let him return from Downstairs for revenge— they must’ve begun to figure it out by now. He was all deformed. Distorted. He was as monstrous as his soul.” 

“He’ll try again.”

“I know.” 

“He can just materialize into places too. Right here, at any moment.”

“I guess I just won’t sleep so I can do the same at any moment.”

“Part angel or no, you’ll need sleep. We’ll have to take turns staying with you, Ainsley and I. It violates visiting hours, but if we’re careful they’ll never know we’re here.” 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“The question is, if They let Endicott out of Hell for revenge, what else will they let him do? He’s a very useful soul, and a hell of a lot smarter than any of the demons that aren’t renegades.”

“You’re worried... you’re worried they’ll make him the Earth demon? Like Crowley originally was?” 

“Something like that, yes.” 

“What about an angel, then?”

“I... I don’t know. I suppose they’ll have to pick another human, to be fair.”

“Them? Fair?”

“To themselves, certainly. One H won’t let the other have an advantage.”

“True. Where do you suppose they’ll make their homes?” 

“Endicott will be here in the city, it’s his dominion, forever and always. I won’t be able to speak for the angel.... We need to stop Endicott.” 

“We don’t know where to find him— do you have a plan?”

“Like you said, he’ll try to kill me again. In other words, I’m bait, and one of you needs to go steal some Holy Water.” 

|  |   
---|---  
  
| 


	13. The Angel's Announcement

Ainsley and Martin, or rather Aziraphale, were sitting beside Malcolm.

“I know I won’t be the one to kill him, but it did feel right that I should be here — if he comes during visiting hours, since I can’t miracle myself from place to place anymore.” said Aziraphale. He looked at the flask of Holy Water in Ainsley’s hands. “Be careful with that. It could take more than Endicott with it, you know.” 

“I’ll be careful.” assured Ainsley. 

And then it happened. There was a light, and a figure began to materialize. Ainsley threw the Holy Water at it. 

Nothing happened. It finished materialized, and looked disappointedly at it’s wetness.

“You weren’t expecting an angel, were you?” it, or rather she, asked. With a snap, the Holy Water vanished.

“Ah, no.” answered Aziraphale. He looked at her, and his face went pale. 

“You!” he cried. 

“What is it?” asked Ainsley. 

“She... she was one of my... my...” stuttered Aziraphale.

“Victims in a former life?” answered the angel. 

“How did you know?” gasped Aziraphale. 

“They told me so that I would murder your son.” the angel answered. “But they were foolish. They picked the wrong dead former victim.”

“Why? Why do you have sympathy for us? Surely they’ve told you—“

“Lies. They’ve told me lies. So many lies. I knew not to let them know I knew, of course.”

“How did you know they were lying?”

“Because the man I loved would never be the best friend of the man that killed me if it was all as bad as they tried to make it sound.” said the angel.

And suddenly it dawned on the Whitlys. 

“Those eyes...” said Malcolm. “They’re Estelle’s eyes. You’re Joan Derosiers, Anthony J. Crowley’s lover who died when their daughter was a baby.” 

“And you’re my daughter’s lover. It’s funny, they didn’t even bother to check if I had any good prior associations with the angel and demon that rebelled. Don’t cry,” Joan said, looking at Aziraphale, who was on the verge of tears.

“But I killed you! He would’ve had someone in that other life if I hadn’t. But no, he lived alone!” said Aziraphale, choked up. 

“The other life, Aziraphale! The one that doesn’t matter! I was taken from him in this life too, and it wasn’t you who took me, it was cancer, something that even a great surgeon like yourself wouldn’t have been able to fix.” said Joan. She turned to Malcolm. “Well, heal yourself, let’s go get Endicott.” 

“You—“

“I know where he is, I’ve done my research! They leave the Earth Surveillance untended too, the idiots.”

“I see why he liked you.” said Aziraphale with a smile. 

“I see why he likes you.” Joan replied. “Come on now, we have a demon to murder— we’re going to show them that we are the champions. I’ve done lots of research, and I have something to tell you and Estelle, Malcolm— although she has something to tell you first.”

“But... she’s stopped talking to us.” 

“Exactly. Now let’s go get Adam and my Crowley.” 

He never saw the Oblivion coming until it was too late. He was sipping his Châteauneuf-du-Pape, enjoying his demon status and practicing how to make himself look human again when they came. Angels, demons, humans alike, all surrounding him, pouring Holy Water on him; Crowley had chosen a water mister as his method of death delivery. Endicott could never have vanished fast enough to escape. It was over before it began. 

“Estelle will talk to you now.” said Joan, looking at the black blood that flooded the floor and was now staining her toes through the sandals she wore. 

“She wasn’t talking to me because of Endicott? She didn’t even know about Endicott!” said Malcolm.

“She did,” said Crowley guiltily. 

“How do you know? You said she wasn’t talking to you either!” said Aziraphale.

“I lied. I’m terribly sorry, but I lied to you, Aziraphale. Forgive me?” said Crowley. 

“Well, of course, but, we really don’t understand.” said Aziraphale. 

“You will. She’s protecting someone is all.” said Joan. Crowley looked at her nervously. 

“Oh, stop it!” she said, kissing him on the cheek. His face went red.

Aziraphale smiled— Crowley acted around Joan the same way he himself had acted around Jessica when they were younger. Crowley was just in awe that she was even there, and undoubted after suffering her loss before, the love was all the stronger. 

“So where is she?” asked Ainsley. 

“She’s in a place where she could explain any funny business to the people there, but that Heaven and Hell wouldn’t think of very fast.” answered Joan. She turned to Adam. “A certain witch you know...”

“The Pulsifers! She’s with the Pulsifers!” said Adam happily. 

“Why, she’s in America!” said Aziraphale. 

“She owed us something in return for the ride in the Bentley.” said Crowley.

“You hit Miss Device with a car, she hardly owes us anything!” said Aziraphale reproachfully. 

“I’m kidding.” said Crowley. 

“You’re remarkably bad at knowing when he’s kidding.” said Adam, laughing. Aziraphale huffed. Crowley just smiled. Aziraphale was being Aziraphale and not Martin. Crowley knew that he himself had changed as a human, but Aziraphale had changed more; it was good to see his angel. Angels. Both of them. 

The group, Jessica included, stood before the main door on the massive Device estate. 

“Newt did well in marriage... very well.” said Aziraphale amusedly. “It’s hard to be richer than Jessica.” 

“Martin!” said Jessica. “My family’s legacy is not a joke!” 

“Except when it’s your wine...” said Ainsley with a wicked smile. 

“Now that’s really unnecessary,” said Jessica. “Just because I drank copiously in a past life doesn’t mean—“ 

“Jess doesn’t get jokes either.” said Crowley. 

“They’re a perfectly matched couple.” said Joan with a smile. 

“Yup.” replied Crowley. 

Ainsley snapped her fingers, and the knocker on the door knocked itself. The doorbell rang as well. Anathema had been very thorough. 

“My girl, you’re going to get a strongly worded message about frivolous miracles.” warned Aziraphale. “Or I suppose they’ll assume it’s Joan, and she’ll get a strongly worded message.”

“That barely counts as a miracle, does it?” asked Ainsley, looking at the door.

“Gabriel is very strict.” replied Aziraphale. 

The door opened. Newton Pulsifer blinked through his spectacles.

“How is it that neither of you look a day older?” 

“Don’t worry, we will, Adam saw to that.” said Crowley with a wink. “If you look, you can see I’m starting to go a bit gray, just here.” He pointed to a section of his hair. 

“I’m entirely gray!” exclaimed Newt. 

“It suits you.” said Aziraphale politely. “It makes your look even wiser.”

“Oh shut it, we all know I’ve never been wise.” said Newt, grinning. “That’s Anathema’s department. Come in!” 

The group followed Newt into the house and into the sitting room, where Anathema was reading. A few teenagers were loafing about, although they didn’t forget to introduce themselves. 

“The last kids. The others are grown and living alone.” said Newt. 

“Soon it’ll just be the witch and the witch-finder.” said Anathema with a wink. “Can I get any of you anything? Coffee? Tea, maybe?” 

The group thanked her, and those who took her offer followed her into her large kitchen. 

A few minutes later, they were all sitting. 

“So. Estelle. Is anyone going to tell us what’s going on?” asked Malcolm.

Just then, Estelle appeared on the stairs.

“Hello, lover boy.” she said to him. He raced up the stairs to meet her. 

“I’ve been worried. Worried something happened to you or even just that you were angry with me.” 

She smiled.

“Well, I can’t say I wasn’t at all angry at you, but that’s not the reason for this. Safety was the reason. Come with me.” 

She lead him upstairs and down the hall. She paused outside the room that appeared to be hers and turned to him.

“What I’ve done, I hope you’ll understand. First I did it because I didn’t want to hurt you if something happened, if it was a... false alarm. And there was Eve. I didn’t want to ruin what you had. Then when Ainsley told me you were going after a dangerous person, I knew you couldn’t know, because who knew what Endicott would do if he found out. Then you were stabbed, and I was even more frightened. But now that he’s gone, really gone, and Eve has gone for Sophie, well... Heaven and Hell could come for us at any moment, but we still need to live, so... I’m done hiding the truth from you.” 

“I...” said Malcolm perplexed. 

“Just... try not to panic.” said Estelle worriedly. 

“It’s very difficult to make me panic.” said Malcolm. Estelle laughed.

“That’s what you tell yourself!” 

They walked into the room, and he saw it, and he knew what was inside. He froze.

“Go on.” said Estelle. 

Malcolm took a breath and walked across the room. He looked down into the crib and saw a tiny little person with a tiny little face and very ginger hair. A pair of blue Whitly eyes blinked expectantly up at him. 

“Our little boy.” said Estelle, smiling. 

“He’s so small, he’s barely there.” said Malcolm breathlessly. 

“Makes him easier to hide.” teased Estelle. 

“I understand that you wanted to protect him.” said Malcolm.

“Good.” replied Estelle. 

“It’s shocking to think... not so long ago... none of this could have happened. You didn’t exist, he couldn’t have. I’ve learned that in the other life, my dad killed your mom. I died. Dad, Mom, Ainsley, Crowley. We all died. But Adam wouldn’t have it.”

“Do you think we should name him Adam?” 

“You haven’t named him?” 

“Well... I might’ve given him a nickname. But I wanted to wait for you.”

“What have you been calling him?”

“... Freddie.”

“Freddie?” Malcolm laughed. “You’ve named him for Queen!”

“I told you, it’s a nickname, it’s just so I don’t always call him ‘baby’ or ‘little man’ or something. Besides, I chose it for its more philosophical meaning as well.”

“And what’s that, my dear?” 

“Frederick means ‘peaceful ruler’. He’s the one who is going to have to fight the angels and the demons when we’re gone. Maybe he’ll win.” 

“Fred Whitly. Well, it’s not the most exotic name, but then our fathers chose ‘Anthony Crowley’ and ‘Martin Whitly’ out of any names in the universe, so maybe it suits.” 

“Yes, maybe it does. And we could always throw a fancy name in the middle, in case he gets bored. I think we should do a double barrel last name. Crowley means ‘hero’. It’s the sort of last name I think he’d be glad we let him keep.”

“I think so, too. Your dad has seen him?”

“Yes, and he’s very pleased that Freddie inherited the Crowley ginger hair instead if your brown mop!” laughed Estelle.

“I bet he is! Anthony J. Crowley always has taken great pride in that hair of his!” said Malcolm with a chuckle. “Well, your dad as seen him, now it’s my dad’s turn.” 

Aziraphale held the infant, tears streaming down his face. 

“Ah, he’s perfect. Isn’t he perfect, Jess?” 

“Yes, he is,” replied Jessica, trying not to cry.

“Of course he’s perfect, he’s all of us!” said Crowley.

“As if any of us have ever been anywhere near perfect.” said Malcolm, laughing.

“I meant looks.” said Crowley. 

“He’s angel stock.” said Joan.

“Well, yeah, Aziraphale and I are angel stock, how couldn’t he be?” said Crowley.

“No, I mean he’s proper angel stock. 100% Celestial. That’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you, it was part of what I researched— there is information in Heaven if you know where to look and who to ask how.” replied Joan.

“But... but how can that be possible?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Adam making you human didn’t affect that fact that you used to be 100% celestial. That makes, as evident by their powers, Estelle, Ainsley, and Malcolm all half celestial. Adam as well, for different reasons. The Celestial is more powerful than the Human, so the two halves make a whole.” said Joan.

“So Freddie,” began Estelle.

“And any children Adam and I may have,” said Ainsley.

“Would be,” said Malcolm. 

“Immortal.” everyone said at once. Joan nodded. 

“Freddie is the Crowley and Aziraphale of the Earth, now.”

“But doesn’t that mean, we when die, we’ll never see him again?” asked Aziraphale, holding the baby a little closer.

“He’s an angel, he can go wherever he wants, he can visit us wherever he wants, and he’d never have to leave us if he didn’t want to, he just could.” said Joan. “I’m sure Death wouldn’t mind.” 

“Well, I’m not summoning him to ask him.” chuckled Adam. 

“Even if you could.” teased Ainsley.

“Yes... I’d have to be very angry.” admitted Adam.

“That’s a mild description for it.” said Aziraphale. 

Malcolm Whitly sat on his porch, watching his five year old son playing on the lawn. Freddie ran up to him.

“Daddy, Daddy, look!” he said excited, holding out his hand.

“Ah,” said Malcolm awkwardly. “You’ve found a—“

“Sister Slug!” said Aziraphale cheerfully, appearing beside them.

“Sister?” asked Freddie, cocking his head to one side. 

“Sister and Brother. It’s what we call the animals, to be kind.” explained Aziraphale. “To show reverence for all living things.” 

“You’ve always been very good at that.” teased Malcolm.

“Now, really, my boy.” said Aziraphale— but he was smiling. He turned to his grandson. “Why don’t you show me what else you can find in the yard, and maybe we can pick some flowers for Grandma Jessie?” 

“Okay.” said Freddie. Aziraphale took the boy’s hand, and they walked off together. On the other side of the yard, Crowley and Estelle were gardening. Eve and Sophie had said they’d come and visit soon.

Ainsley and Adam were visiting the Youngs with their new baby girl. 

Joan was off battling Endicott’s replacement demon, and Jessica was with her, just for the excitement.

Malcolm leaned back and closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of the sun on his face. 

At last, life was perfect. 

Twenty-Five Years Later...

Frederick Crowley-Whitly sat on a bench in St. James’ Park. He ran his fingers through his hair. It was ginger like one grandfather’s, and light, fluffy and curly like the other’s. Someone approached, so he stuck a marker in the book he was reading. 

“You’re late.” he commented plainly. 

“I knew you’d have a book, that you’d survive.” his cousin, Irene Young, answered. 

“Seeing someone, were you?” Fred asked, pointing out the particularly lavish hairstyle Irene had put her golden tresses into. 

“I had a Tempting.”

“Ah. Did Grandma Jessie help you pick that dress?” 

“Correct, as usual!” 

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t?”

“What? The dress?”

“What? No! No, working for them. You as a demon, I as an angel.” 

“We’re Human Angels, they’re lucky to have us, we’re the best at what we do, getting inside the human mind. And it’s the price we pay for them agreeing to leave our family alone, let Aunt Joan be with Uncle Crowley now that we’re taking over, and not attempt to end the world for at least a few thousand years. They will try, but they want us to get them more souls first.”

“Which is why we have to do it at the right pace. Not so fast that they get what they want, but not so slow that they notice.” 

“Exactly.”

Epilogue

Crowley and Aziraphale sat enjoying drinks and a meal at the Ritz.

“We did well.” said Crowley. “It took us long enough, but we’ve ended up right.”

“Yes, we have.” Aziraphale replied. “Partners, children, grandchildren, our families made one with each other’s and Adam’s. We’re lucky. Sometimes I wonder, if they could just know how it feels, if maybe some of our enemies would see why the world needs to keep on going.” 

“Gabriel would hate any child that wasn’t an exact replica of himself, and that’s not how children work. Beelzebub would be better at parenting, I think. Hastur doesn’t need kids, he just needs frogspawn.” remarked Crowley.

“True, true!” laughed Aziraphale. “Imagine Michael with a baby?” 

Crowley almost spat up his drink.

“NO.” 

“I guess we’ve disproved my theory!” grinned Aziraphale.

“Yes,” chuckled Crowley. “Too bad. The world holds treasures they’ll never understand. Their loss, I suppose. At least we’ve gained, gained from breaking the rules, gained from being human.”

“Yes, we have. So here’s to living dangerously, and here’s to world!” 

“To the world!” 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE PLEASE READ: I FORGOT A CRUCIAL CHAPTER AND HAVE NOW GONE AND PUT IT IN. IT IS CHAPTER FIVE.  
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!  
> I put in some nods to other fandoms, including BBC Sherlock, the original Sherlock Holmes books, the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes series, the Morse Universe (Inspector Morse, Lewis, Endeavour), Tosca, and Doctor Who. I'd love to know if you spot them! Crowley's partner's name is actually my extremely convoluted version of one belonging to a very famous DW character-- I hope someone solves the puzzle!


End file.
